INTERFLOW 

By  Geoffery  C.  Faber 


THE   NEW   POETRY   SERIES 


HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


INTERFLOW 

POEMS,  CHIEFLY  LYRICAL 
BY 

GEOFFREY   FABER 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

1915 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


ADVERTISEMENT 

IF  I  am  asked, '  Is  this  a  time  for  publishing  poetry  ? ' 
I  can  only  reply  that  it  is  not  the  time  which  I 
would  have  chosen.  It  is  not  the  hour  indeed  for 
artistic  effort  of  any  kind.  That  hour  will  come 
again  ;  but  it  may  be  long  delayed.  It  is  fear  of 
this  delay  which  is  responsible  for  the  appearance  of 
the  following  poems.  They  must  brave  the  light 
now  or,  perhaps,  never. 

And  yet  there  may  be  others  who  have  felt  (as  I 
have),  in  the  midst  of  unaccustomed  duties,  a  stronger 
inclination  than  ever  before  towards  all  that  adorns 
or  enhances  our  spiritual  life.  Some  of  these, 
perhaps,  may  read  what  I  have  written,  and  be  the 
kinder  in  their  judgments  because  I  am  unfortunate 
in  my  opportunity.  It  would  be  sad  if  War  were 
allowed  to  expel  Art,  even  for  a  while,  out  of  indi- 
vidual lives.  If  my  book  is  regarded  as  a  protest 
against  the  view  that  this  is  either  tolerable  or 
desirable,  I  am  more  than  rewarded  for  any  sacri- 
fice of  popularity. 

CVCKFIELD,  April  1915. 


331028 


'  But  this  in  myself  did  I  know, 
Not  needing  a  studious  brow, 
Or  trust  in  a  governing  star, 
While  my  ears  held  the  jangled  shout 
The  children  were  lifting  afar : 
That  natures  at  interflow 
With  all  of  their  past  and  the  now, 
Are  chords  to  the  Nature  without, 
Orbs  to  the  greater  whole.' 

MEREDITH,  A  Ftitk  on  Trial 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PREFACE,  .  .  .  .  .  xi 

To  P.  A.  T., 1 

NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE,        .....         5 
THE  RAREST  GIFT,          .  .  .  .  .10 

FALLIT  PLACIDI  PELLACIA  PONTI,  .  .  .14 

His  LOT  AND  HERS,        .  .  .  .  .15 

FOREST  POOL  CONFESSION,  .  .  .  .10 

' OFTEN  SHE  LIES  BESIDE  THE  FIRE  ASLEEP',      .  .       19 

ON  VIOLA,  ASLEEP,         .  .  .  .  .20 

To  THE  POETS,    ......       21 

To  A  CERTAIN  PoET,  .  .  .  .  .22 

THE  APPROACH  OF  LOVE,  ....       23 

To 24 

BEFORE  THE  DAWN,         .  .  .  .  .25 

LOVE  IN  MAY,     ......       26 

A  MESSAGE  FROM  HIS  LOVE,        .  .  .  .27 

FOREBODING,       .  .  .  .  .  .28 

DEPARTURE,        .  .  .  .  .  .29 

CRI  DU  COEUR,   .  .  .  .  .  .30 

vii 


INTERFLOW 

PAGE 

LOVE  REMEMBERED,        .             .             •             •  .31 

AWAKENING,       ....  .32 

IN  A  ROOM,         .             .            •             •             •  .33 

OLD  LOVE,           .             •             •             •             •  .35 

SPRING  DAY  (ON  THE  MALVERN  HILLS),              .  .       36 

FEBRUARY  MORNING,      .             .             .            .  .37 
THE  MIRACLE,    .... 

LINES  WRITTEN  AT  ^ASTDALE  HEAD,        .  -          40 

AN  AUTUMN  SONG,          .             .             •             •  .41 
NOCTURNE,          ......       42 

OTIA  DIA,            ...  .44 

RED  WINE  OF  SUNSET,    .             .  45 

'  THE  LONG  CLOUDS  STRETCH  OVER  THE  HILLS',  .  .       46 
MOUNTAIN,  FOREST,  AND  PLAIN, 

'  A  BOAT  OF  SILVER',     .             .             •             •  .51 
'  I  HEARD  A  VOICE',        .                        ...       52 

ON  LEAVING  OXFORD,      .             .             .             •  .53 

A  LAMENT  OVER  THE  CITY  OF  LONDON,  .  .       54 

1  O  THAT  I  HAD  A  COTTAGE  ON  A  HlLL*,                    .  .          56 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  RICHMOND  PARK,       .  •       57 

JUNE  DAY,          .             .             .             •  .58 
MORNING  (AT  HIGHGATE), 

MORNING  (AT  GOFF'S  OAK),         .             .             .  .61 

HOLIDAY  SONG,  .             .             .             •             •  .62 

'  IT  IS  OFTEN  THAT  I  HAVE  HEARD  HER  CALLING*,  .      63 

'  BREAK,  BREAK,  THOU  STUBBORN  VASE  OF  CLAY',  .       65 
viii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Sic  TRANSIT  GLORIA  MUNDI,      .             .  .  .67 

USQUE  QUO,  DOMINE  ?                   .             .  .  .68 

IN  A  BAR  OF  Music,        .             .             .  .  .70 

QUIA  IMPOSSIBLE,            .             .             .  .  .72 

THE  THREE  DREAMS,      .             .             .  .  .73 

LAMENTABILE,     ....  .75 

REMONSTRANCE,               .             .             .  .  .76 

f  THERE  is  A  ROAD  RUNS  THROUGH  THE  LANDS  OF  SLEEP',       78 
(  WISE  WITH  THE  WISDOM  DRAWN  FROM  LADEN  YEARS',       79 
f  WHAT  GIFT  HAST  THOU,  O  WORLD  WHERE  NO  STARS 

GLOW',          .             .             .             .  .  .80 

<  QU'AS-TU  FAIT  ? '                        .             .  .  .81 

PAGAN  PRAYER,               .             .             .  .  .82 

MISGIVING,          .             .             .             .  .  .83 

A  PENNY  WHISTLE,        .             .             .  .  .84 

AMANS  A  MARE,  .             .             .             .  .  .85 

f  WHEN  I  WAS  A  BOY',  .             .             .  .  .90 

THE  GARDEN  AND  THE  LAND,      .             .  .  .91 

LINES  WRITTEN  TO  Music,           .            .  .  .92 

'MODERNITY',    .  .....       93 

STARS  IN  MUD,  .             .             .             .  .  .94 

BUILDING  AND  SINGING,  .             .             .  .  .96 

A  FABLE,            .             .             .  .  .97 

AN  EPITAPH,       .             .             .             .  .  .99 

THE  EVE  OF  WAR,          .             .             .  .  .100 

ON  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  WAR,           .  .  .     101 

ix 


INTERFLOW 

PAGE 

ON  THE  WAR  (i),            .             .             .             m  .102 

ON  THE  WAR  (n),           .             .             .  jQ3 

'  FOR  THOSE  AT  SEA',     ....  104 

ST.  PAUL'S  IN  WAR  TIME,          .             .             .  .105 

QUID  SIT  FUTURUM,       .             .             .  106 

To  BELGIUM,       .             .             .             .             t  IQJ 

ON  THE  SINKING  OF  THE  '  FALABA  ',        .             .  .108 

A  CALL  TO  ARMS,            .  109 

RUPERT  BROOKE,             .             .             .  m 


'To  a  Certain  Poet,'  'Love  in  May,'  'Love  Remembered,' 
'In  a  Room,'  'Sic  Transit  Gloria  Mundi,'  'Usque  quo, 
Domine,'  '  Quia  Impossible,'  and  'A  Fable,'  originally 
appeared  in  the  Oxford  Magazine-,  'For  Those  at  Sea' 
originally  appeared  in  the  Westminster  Gazette.  The 
Author  is  indebted  to  the  Editors  of  these  papers  for  per- 
mission to  reprint  the  poems  here. 


PREFACE 

IT  is  no  longer  in  the  fashion  for  poets  to  write 
prefaces ;  this  was  once  their  prerogative,  but  they 
have  yielded  it  to  the  playwrights,  who  magnify  it 
more  than  ever  the  poets  did.  Yet  a  new  writer 
may,  perhaps,  on  his  first  appearance,  say  what  the 
art  he  practises  signifies  to  him,  and  give  the  critics 
an  opportunity  of  replying  that  his  opinions  matter 
to  nobody  except  himself. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  poetry,  as  there  are  two 
schools  of  painting, — subjective  and  objective,  the 
poetry  which  looks  inward  and  that  which  looks 
outward,  the  poetry  which  discovers  the  symbols  of 
romance  in  the  soul  and  that  which  traces  them  in 
the  sky  or  in  the  actual  lives  of  men.  For  all  poetry 
is  romantic,  in  that  it  distorts  facts ;  since  facts  are 
prose,  and  prose  is  not  poetry.  Or,  more  truly, 
prose  is  for  the  facts  of  experience ;  but  poetry  is 
to  re-interpret  experience,  reading  into  it  that 
which  common  sense  would  say  was  not  there.  And 
as  we  have  two  modes  of  experience  (of  ourselves 
and  of  our  surroundings),  so  we  have  two  forms  of 
prose  and  two  forms  of  poetry. 

xi 


INTERFLOW 

Which  is  the  greater  is  a  hard  question  to  answer, 
and  each  man  must  answer  it  to  his  own  satisfaction. 
Which  is  the  finer  poetry,  the  Odyssey  or  the  Odes 
of  Sappho?  which  the  greater  poet,  Catullus  or  Virgil, 
Milton  or  Shelley  ?  or  is  he  to  be  preferred  above 
the  others,  who,  like  Browning,  stretches  his  genius 
to  cover  both  extremes  ?  Nor  are  the  alternatives 
always  so  simple  ;  for  it  is  possible  (or  by  some 
thought  possible)  so  to  fuse  subject  and  object  into 
one,  that  what  appears  to  be  a  landscape  is  in  fact 
a  battle  of  emotions,  or  (and  this  is  perhaps  more 
usual)  what  seems  to  be  a  battle  of  emotions  is,  in 
fact,  a  landscape.  It  may  be  thought  curious  to 
state  these  distinctions  in  a  preface  and  not  to 
resolve  them.  But  if  I  cannot  resolve  them,  I  cannot 
but  be  conscious  of  them  ;  and  all  these  kinds  of 
poetry  will  be  found  in  this  volume.  I  am  only 
anxious  that  I  should  not  be  called  thoughtless, 
because  I  have  not  yet  evolved  a  final  philosophy  of 
art,  or  inconsistent,  because  I  have  not  resisted  the 
influences  of  my  day. 

There  are  other  problems  than  these,  dragons 
which  must  be  faced  if  not  slain  by  the  modern 
poet ;  since  the  spirit  of  the  times  no  longer  allows 
him  to  wander  '  fancy-free.1  What  is  it  which  he 
puts  into  experience — is  it  one  ingredient  only,  or 
two,  or  more  ?  He  cooks  his  facts  ;  with  what  does 
he  season  them,  and  where  does  he  buy  his  relishes  ? 
Is  he  to  beautify  experience,  or  to  make  it  horrible  ? 
xii 


PREFACE 

The  facts  are  tasteless  ;  is  he  simply  to  make  them 
more  palatable  ? 

We  used  to  call  the  ingredient  which  Art  puts  into 
life,  beauty.  But  that  answer  is  now  out  of  date  ; 
it  is  at  least  only  in  part  true.  There  are  many 
poems  which  are  not  beautiful  at  all,  but  drab  or 
ugly  or  horrible  or  forcible  or  even  humorous,  but 
which  are  nevertheless  unmistakably  poetry.  Per- 
haps it  may  be  said  that  poetry  intensifies  experience  ; 
it  concentrates  the  emotions,  which  too  often  spend 
themselves  ineffectually  in  the  sands  of  life.  So  that 
the  love  or  the  fear  or  the  hate,  which  in  experi- 
ence appear  as  liking  or  timidity  or  aversion,  are 
shown  to  us  naked  by  the  poet.  He  interprets  ex- 
perience by  and  through  experience  ;  he  uses  the  rare 
moments  to  reinforce  the  common  ones. 

<  O  delight 

And  triumph  of  the  poet, — who  would  say 
A  man's  mere  '  yes',  a  woman's  common  '  no', 
A  little  human  hope  of  that  or  this, 
And  says  the  word  so  that  it  burns  you  through 
With  a  special  revelation,  shakes  the  heart 
Of  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  world, 
As  if  one  came  back  from  the  dead  and  spoke, 
With  eyes  too  happy,  a  familiar  thing 
Become  divine  i'  the  utterance  ! ' 

And  yet  this  is  not  all.     For  beauty  may  not  be 
Art's  only  ingredient,  but  it  is  certainly  the  com- 
monest and  best.     The  sublimest  Art,  whether  it  be 
xiii 


INTERFLOW 

music  or  poetry  or  painting,  is  that  which  floods  the 
soul  with  beauty.  And  this  beauty  differs  in  kind 
from  all  the  other  ingredients  which  Art  uses,  since 
it  is  not  properly  an  ingredient  at  all,  but  a  quality 
which  experience  of  almost  any  kind  can  take  on, 
mystical,  evident  but  not  to  be  explained.  I  will 
not  conceal  my  belief  that  beauty,  so  understood, 
belongs  not  to  this  world  of  sense,  but  to  another 
world  of  the  spirit.  It  comes  into  being  when  the 
facts  of  this  world  are  brought  into  sudden  unsus- 
pected union  with  the  facts  of  that  other  world  ;  and 
this  union  is  effected  only  by  those  '  intimations  of 
immortality '  which  fade  away  so  quickly  and  are  so 
hard  to  recapture  in  the  light  of  common  day. 

'Olife,  O  poetry, 

— Which  means  life  in  life  !  cognisant  of  life 
Beyond  this  blood-beat, — passionate  for  truth 
Beyond  these  senses — ' 

So,  again,  Mrs.  Browning.  And  the  same  idea 
has  been  subtly  and  beautifully  clothed  by  the 
present  poet  laureate : 

e  For  Beauty  being  the  best  of  all  we  know 
Sums  up  the  unsearchable  and  secret  aims 
Of  nature,  and  on  joys  whose  earthly  names 
Were  never  known  can  form  and  sense  bestow.' 

All  these  observations,  it  will  be  said,  ignore  the 
importance  of  form.     But  what  is  form,  except  the 
shape  taken  by  thought  ?    And  how  can  one  thought 
xiv 


PREFACE 

take  many  shapes  ?  With  each  shape  it  must 
become  a  new  thought.  We  cannot  say  of  a  poem 
that  its  form  is  defective,  but  that  it  is  a  fine  poem, 
as,  for  instance,  has  been  said  of  'Love  in  the  Valley.' 
Essential  to  a  poem  is  its  rhythm,  and  the  meaning 
of  the  poem  is  conveyed  as  much  by  its  rhythm  as 
by  the  words  of  which  it  is  composed.  Motion  is 
the  most  expressive  of  languages ;  but  it  expresses 
states  and  moods,  rather  than  ideas.  For  this 
reason,  plain  prose,  which  is  rhythmically  poor  and 
deals  in  ideas  rather  than  moods,  is  inadequate  to 
render  a  true  account  of  the  world.  For  the  world 
(that  is,  the  whole  sum  of  a  man's  experiences)  is 
much  more  a  matter  of  moods  than  of  facts ;  and 
the  business  of  poetry  is  to  intensify  our  apprecia- 
tion of  the  world  in  all  its  several  moods  of  love  and 
hate,  joy  and  despair,  confidence  and  terror;  above 
all,  by  that  subtle  medium  of  beauty  to  show  its 
relation  to  the  other  world,  whose  moods  are  beyond 
our  comprehending. 

HIGHGATE,  July  1914. 


XV 


TO  P.  A.  T. 

THIS  midland  town  is  emptied  for  a  while 

Of  all  the  military  sights  and  sounds 

Three  months  of  war  have  bred  in  her.     The  style 

Of  my  new  life  relaxes.     To  the  fire 

I  draw  my  chair ;  beyond  the  rigid  bounds 

New-set  to  thought  and  new-set  to  desire 

Fancy  adventures,  making  holiday. 

And  first,  before  she  visits  remoter  lands, 

Or  takes  swift  wing  on  that  more  arduous  way. 

Uncharted,  which  her  task  is  to  explore, 

She  with  her  sister  Memory  joins  hands — 

Those  twin  dear  angels,  whom  I  both  adore — 

And  Memory  whispers  '  It  is  not  far  to  go ', 

To  Rugby,  and  eleven  years  ago. 

This  very  morning,  gone  eleven  years ! 

I  wonder  what  I  did  then,  how  I  looked. 

What  should  I  think  of  those  raw  hopes  and  fears, 

Long  since  forgotten  ?     Yet  every  one  was  booked 

To  my  account,  and  bears  its  interest  still. 

No  doubt  I  found  the  morning  dull  enough, 

Wished  I  were  free  to  follow  my  own  will, 

And  thought  my  Greek  Unseen  was  awfully  tough. 

But  there  were  other  times  and  other  places ; 

Times,  Philip,  when  we  two  foregathered  shyly 

And  planned  our  lives  and  wrote  our  boyish  verses, 

A  1 


INTERFLOW 

While  down  the  passage  someone  strummed  and 

strummed 

On  the  Glasshouse  piano  '  See  the  little  Pansy  Faces 
Sitting  on  the  Garden  Watt\  and  strummed  most 

vilely  ! 

Will  you  believe  me  ?     That  poor  tune  reverses 
Eleven  years;  for  just  now  as  I  hummed 
I  sat  with  you  again  and  we  were  boys. 
There's  magic  in  that  bit  of  vulgar  noise. 

You  were  the  first  and  best  of  all  my  masters ; 

You  showed  me  what  I  needed — that  rare  food 

Of  starveling  imagination,  poetry. 

You  taught  me  how  to  capture  .the  fine  mood 

Which  rears  its  head  above  youth's  mad  disasters, 

Champing  no  bit  and  ranging  fancy-free. 

For  all  you  taught  me  I  can  never  render 

Any  account  save  this :  if  there  be  gold 

In  handiwork  of  mine,  you  were  its  lender. 

I  will  confess  I  copied  you  of  old. 

And  there  are  lines  of  yours  I  still  remember 

Affectionately,  almost  as  my  own. 

And  in  my  heart  glows  still  a  grateful  ember 

Left  from  the  fire  you  built.     I  have  outgrown 

Many  ambitions,  but  not  that  ambition 

We  shared  together.     Share  we  its  fruition  ! 

Ah  !  Philip,  those  were  golden,  golden  days. 
Winter  and  spring  and  summer  came  and  went, 
And  were  as  verses  in  a  fourfold  song 
Ending  with  autumn.     And  all  that  year  along 
Within  our  schoolboys'  lives  a  life  was  spent 
That  was  a  very  secret  dream  of  praise, 


TO  P.  A.  T. 

Of  shadowy  hope  and  love  and  wonderment. 

And  autumn  passed  and  winter  came  again. 

Do  you  remember  now  that  farewell  walk, 

Upon  a  black  and  frosty  afternoon, 

By  the  canal  ?     The  earth  in  iron  pain 

Lay    mute,    and    we    were    locked    in    strenuous 

talk. 
You  said,  '  Youth  ends ;  manhood  and  work  come 

soonS 

And  so  you  left  me,  lonely  with  my  faith, 
And    with    the    year    you    passed    and    were    a 

wraith. 

I  have  the  faith  still,  though  the  vision  fades. 

The  vision  fades,  but  I  am  sure  of  heaven. 

There    is    a    peace,    which    thrice- hushed     forest 

glades 

Own  not ;  there  is  a  glory  which  is  given 
Not  to  the  kingdoms  of  this  warring  earth  ; 
There  is  a  beauty  not  of  man  or  woman  ; 
In  all  the  highest  that  we  bring  to  birth 
There  is  an  element  which  is  not  human. 
I  seek  this  still  and  I  will  seek  for  ever. 
Better  to  be  a  fool  and  dote  on  truth 
Than  shame  the  soul  in  order  to  be  clever ; 
For  clever  men  make  mock  of  their  own  youth. 
And  by  whatever  art,  by  what  of  skill 
I  can  command,  be  this  my  utterance  still. 

The  short  day  darkens ;  troops  and  guns  return  ; 
The  trumpet  sounds  out  bravely  in  the  street. 
I  must  forget  the  past  again,  unlearn 
My  very  nature,  till  the  world  smells  sweet 


INTERFLOW 

Once  more,  and  I  am  free  to  go  my  way. 
Then,  Philip,  I  will  set  these  random  lines, 
Made  for  an  index  to  my  thoughts  this  day, 
Before  my  book  ;  and  they  shall  be  for  signs 
That  even  in  the  midst  of  war  I  hold 
The  same  faith  that  we  two  boys  held  of  old, 

NORTHAMPTON,  2lst  November  1914. 


4 


NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE 


NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE 

THE  Prince  as  he  walked  in  his  garden 

Gave  command  for  music  to  be  played^ 

In  the  evening  when  the  starlight  made 

The  dark  trees  visible  against  the  sky. 

It  was  that  hour  when  we  whom  dull  days  harden 

Soften  and  tremble ',  though  we  know  not  why. 

Far  away  through  the  leaves  and  branches  floated, 
Soft  as  the  starlight  glimmering  in  the  lake, 
Shy  harmonies  scarce  born  but  they  did  break 
In  mists  of  falling  sound,  which  sweeter  seemed 
Than  the  inspired  songs  of  silver-throated 
Birds  in  some  Paradise  whereof  he  dreamed. 

He  was  not  old ;  for  still  with  comely  down 
Soft  were  his  cheeks  as  beds  of  fragrant  bloom. 
Yet  in  his  heart  all  was  darkness,  all  was  gloom. 
Heavy  upon  his  shoulders  Jay  the  hand  of  madness; 
Deep  in  his  young  forehead  the  graven  frown 
Betrayed  the  long  hours,  the  hours  of  sadness. 

One  who  loved  him  watched  from  a  distance, 
Noting  every  gesture,  every  sweet  and  bitter  motion, 
Torn  by  hate  and  by  devotion, 
Longing  now  to  kiss  him  and  ready  now  to  kill ; 
Fiercely  she  longed  to  feel  his  weak  resistance, 
Force  him  to  surrender,  work  on  him  her  will. 

5 


INTERFLOW 

Still  through  the  night  air,  heavy  and  enchanted, 
The  sad  notes  hovered,  lingering  while  they  faded  ; 
Even  as  the  lover,  whom  his  mistress  hath  upbraided, 
Lingers  near  her  window,  till  the  dawn  bids  him 

depart, 
Filled    with    forebodings    lest    perchance    he    be 

supplanted ; 
And  his  eyes  are  lit  with  anger,  but  tears  are  in  his 

heart. 

Up  and  down,  between  tall  banks  of  flowers, 
Beneath  the  branches  of  heavy-scented  trees, 
Sauntered  the  slow  courtiers  in  twos  and  threes, 
The  Prince  alone  and  moody,  they  following  after, 
Delicately  bred  for  palaces  and  bowers 
And  gentle  passions  and  soft  considered  laughter. 

Yellow  the  moon  rose,  the  yellow  light  ran, 
Silently  possessing  the  hills  and  valleys ; 
And  over  the  tree-tops  and  down  the  alleys 
It  brimming  poured.     The  yellow  moon  rose, 
And  the  dusk  ended  and  the  night  began. 
It  seemed  such  night  could  never  close. 

Sudden  in  the  moonlight  her  white  arm  glistened. 

Sudden  the  knife  flashed.     She  caught  him  falling. 

She  caught  him  to  her,  softly  calling 

Him  prince  and  sweetheart,  and  kissed  his  paling 

Lips,  and  made  as  though  she  listened. 

But  fast  his  blood  flowed,  his  breath  was  failing. 

And  still  the  courtiers  strolled  and  jested, 
And  still  the  music  sighed  through  the  garden. 

6 


NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE 

And  struck   with    horror   she  watched   the  blood 

harden, 

And  knew  him  dead,  and  said,  '  Have  I  killed  him  ?  ' 
Wondering  if  dead  souls  might  be  wrested 
Back  from  the  dead.     But  no  life  thrilled  him. 

Still  through  the  night  air,  heavy  and  enchanted, 
The  soft  notes  hovered,  fading  as  they  lingered. 
And  still  disdainful  ladies  fingered 
Leaf  and  petal  while  lovers  flattered. 
Frail  roots  of  passion  untimely  planted  ! 
Image  of  peace  so  rudely  shattered  ! 

As  when  the  slow  swell  urges  shoreward 
Beneath  the  whitening  face  of  the  goddess, 
And  girls  go  bathing.     Skirt  and  bodice 
Lie  in  a  moon-sent  silken  shimmer 
Empty  on  the  sand.     And  each  steps  forward 
Into  the  warm  water,  each  sweet  bare  swimmer. 

Laughing  in  the  water  and  splashing  and  playing, 
Arms  linked  together,  idly  they  float, 
Lifted  now  and  sinking  to  the  hollow,  like  a  boat 
Fair-fashioned  with  limbs  and  breasts  and  faces, 
Upwards  and  downwards  and  upwards  swaying 
Idly  they  float  in  linked  embraces. 

Idly  they  float,  till  sudden  horror  seizes 
Hearts  and  throats,  for  down  in  the  hollow 
Of  a  wave  gone  by  and  the  wave  to  follow 
One  swims  alone  and  cries  assistance. 
And  in  their  veins  the  swift  blood  freezes ; 
For  she  is  gone,  making  no  resistance. 

7 


INTERFLOW 

Down  sank  the  music ;  and  like  a  bird  from  cover 
Broke  upon  their  ears  a  wild  sound  of  sobbing. 
It  rose,  it  fell,  it  set  the  night  throbbing. 
And  each  man  shuddered  and  ceased  from  wooing 
Each  woman  trembling  besought  her  lover 
What  evil  matter  might  be  brewing. 

They  saw  her  then ;  they  saw  him  lying 
Prone  in  the  moonlight  upon  the  ground, 
Silent.     And  still  the  dreadful  sound 
Rose  and  fell  and  set  the  night  throbbing. 
And  terror-stricken  they  were  for  flying, 
But  she  beheld  them  and  stayed  her  sobbing. 

6  Ah  you  ! '  she  said,  6  who  strolled  and  jested, 

Lo,  here ',  she  said,  '  your  Lord  and  Master  ! 

Not  his  nor  yours  is  the  worst  disaster, 

But  mine,  who  loved  him  and  have  killed  him. 

Can  dead  souls  be  by  crying  wrested 

Back  from  the  dead  P1     But  no  life  thrilled  him. 

None  spake.     Like  tender  flakes  of  snow 
Scattered  the  courtiers  ;  in  twos  and  threes 
They  through  the  high-arched  gloom  of  the  trees 
Delicately  fled  to  their  palaces  and  bowers, 
Steeping  the  unwelcome  sense  of  woe 
In  savour  of  wine  and  in  scent  of  flowers. 

No  more  she  wept.     And  soon  serene 
She  clapped  her  hands.     Thereat  a  slave 
Came  running  and  knelt.     To  whom  she  gave 
Her  orders,  saying, '  The  Prince  no  longer 
Is  to  obey,  but  I,  the  Queen. 
For  I  among  these  am  the  stronger.' 

8 


NIGHT  OF  ROMANCE 

The  Queen  as  she  walked  in  her  garden 

Gave  command  for  music  to  be  played, 

In  the  evening  when  the  starlight  made 

The  dark  trees  visible  against  the  sky. 

It  was  that  hour  when  we  whom  dull  days  harden 

Soften  and  tremble,  though  we  know  not  why. 


INTERFLOW 


THE  RAREST  GIFT 

THE  rarest  gifts  God  can  bestow 

Do  with  the  littlest  children  go. 

Be  these  of  body  or  of  soul 

They  shine  as  never  aureole 

Shone  round  the  head  of  fabled  saint, 

Untarnished  yet  nor  yet  grown  faint. 

What  be  these  gifts  ?     Who  asks  is  blind. 

Not  hidden  are  they  nor  hard  to  find. 

In  every  street  in  every  city, 

Though  much  there  be  to  quicken  pity, 

Who  cannot  see  what  is  so  plain, 

'Tis  certain  he  has  eyes  in  vain. 

Let  him  but  be  taught  of  me 

To  look  upon  them  lingeringly, 

He  shall  find  that  he  is  given 

Such  a  key  as  opens  Heaven, 

Of  his  own  heart  the  master  key. 

(If  Heaven  's  not  there,  where  can  it  be  ?) 

4  Come  put  these  beauties  to  the  proof ! ' 
He  obstinately  holds  aloof. 
He  will  not  look,  he  will  not  learn, 
Aside  his  feet  will  never  turn. 
He  goes  upon  the  hard,  white  road. 
His  pride  is  in  the  heavy  load, 
10 


THE  RAREST  GIFT 

The  load  he  bears  upon  his  back. 
His  eyes  are  fastened  to  the  track. 
He  will  not  look,  he  will  not  hear, 
Though  angels  whispered  in  his  ear. 

There  are  the  children's  voices.     Hark  ! 
Children  are  playing  in  the  park. 
Now  surely  that  clear  treble  cry 
Must  catch  him  as  he  passes  by. 
'Tis  like  a  lasso  loosed  and  thrown 
To  tangle  all  who  walk  alone, 
To  bring  them  where  the  children  play 
The  whole  unending  summer  day. 

And  now  the  day  is  at  its  height. 

Noon  stills  the  chattering  birds ;  the  light 

Blinds  the  poor  traveller  on  the  road. 

Full  heavy  is  his  heavy  load. 

Beneath  the  clustering  oak  'tis  sweet 

To  rest  upon  the  carven  seat ; 

He  sits  him  down,  his  fardel  lays 

Upon  the  turf;  his  dull  glance  strays 

Where  little  boys  and  girls  are  seen 

On  the  gilded  glowing  green, 

Chasing  each  other  round  and  round, 

Making  such  a  merry  sound, 

That  even  the  blackbird  stops  his  trill. 

The  traveller  smiles  against  his  will ! 


Deepens  the  day ;  at  length  are  hushed 
Their  voices  too.     Weary  and  flushed 
11 


INTERFLOW 

The  children  scatter  to  the  trees, 
And  each  stops  short  soon  as  he  sees 
There  underneath  the  clustering  oak 
The  Traveller  in  his  travelling  cloak. 
Now,  gloomy  Traveller,  thou  art  caught ! 
At  no  price  can  escape  be  bought. 
Here  comes  with  grave  regarding  eyes 
Their  general,  and  thee  espies, 
Full  seven  years  old,  and  four  feet  high, 
— Tremble  thou  mayst,  thou  canst  not  fly. 

Brave  men  respect  the  brave.     The  foe 
Has  eyed  him  o'er  from  head  to  toe, 
And  given  the  word— his  life  is  spared. 
(Though  what  had  happened  had  he  dared, 
In  pride  of  old  age,  to  rebel, 
I  have  not  wit  enough  to  tell !) 
And  round  the  Traveller's  either  knee 
Gathers  the  little  company. 

They  made  him  tell  a  story,  who 

Adventureless  had  lived  life  through. 

But  in  his  meanly  furnished  mind 

Stories,  alas  !  were  hard  to  find, 

Till  searching  there  he  came  at  last 

On  a  ballad  from  the  olden  past, 

And  told  the  tale  of  Robin  Hood 

And  his  gay  life  in  the  green  wood. 

Then  did  the  children  live  again 

The  lives  of  Robin  and  his  men. 

And  while  he  spoke  and  while  they  listened, 

I  saw  that  tears  in  his  eyes  glistened, 


THE  RAREST  GIFT 

I  knew  that  in  his  heart  once  more 
Wide  open  stood  the  long  shut  door. 
And  there  I  left  him,  well  content; 
For  of  all  gifts  to  children  lent, 
That  gift  is  prized  more  than  gold 
Which  saves  a  soul  from  growing  old. 


INTERFLOW 


FALLIT  PLACIDI  PELLACIA  PONTI 

THE  cliff  gleams  white  beneath  the  flying  spray ; 
The  sun  shines  out ;  the  storm  clouds  flee  away ; 
At  Night's  approach  the  still  disordered  Day 
Grows  calm  and  gathers  up  her  torn  array. 

But  there  is  that  upon  the  wreck-strewn  beach, 
Round    which   the   circling   sea-crows    swoop   and 

screech, 

Soon  but  a  heap  of  bones  for  the  sun  to  bleach ; — 
And  yet  the  Day  departing  smiles  on  each. 

Ah  !  how  canst  thou,  whose  cruel  hands  have  maimed 
That  eager  spirit,  which  lies  torn  and  tamed, 
Laugh  and  forget  and  be  no  more  ashamed 
Than  is  the  wanton  sea  of  the  prey  she  claimed  ? 


14 


HIS  LOT  AND  HERS 


HIS  LOT  AND  HERS 

'  LEAN  over  me',  he  said  ;  and  she  leaned  and  touched 

his  hair. 
'  Kiss  me  \  he  whispered  ;  and  she  kissed,  she  kissed 

him  there. 

Long  he  held  her,  he  would  not  let  her  go 
Till  his  breath  was  failing  ;  he  loved,  he  loved  her  so. 

'  Leave  me1,  he  said  ;  and  she  left  him  and  went  her 

ways. 
4  Not  to  return1,  he  whispered, '  for  many,  so  many, 

days.1 

6 1  go1,  she  answered ;  '  but,  ah  !  for  I  leave  behind 
With  you  the  light  of  my  eyes,  I  go  forth  blind.1 

'  Come  back  to  me1,  he  said;  and  slowly  she  came 

back. 
'  What  is  it  ?  '  she  asked  him  ;  ;  what  is  it  that  you 

lack?1 

'  O  Love,  I  give  you  your  question  again ',  he  said. 
'  Freedom ',  she  murmured,  and  wept,  and  turned 

her  head. 


15 


INTERFLOW 


FOREST  POOL  CONFESSION 

THE  wood  beneath  the  moon 

Is  very  still. 
The  storm  is  gathering ;  soon 

'Twill  break  upon  the  hill. 
Hot  is  my  breath 

On  the  hot  breathless  air. 
Far  thundereth 

A  voice,  Beware,  beware  ! 

The  pool  beneath  the  moon 

Is  very  still, 
As  one  who  prays  some  boon 

Too  hard  for  his  faint  will. 
Its  surface  seems 

Of  pure  untroubled  light ; 
In  its  depths  are  dreams, 

That  hide  themselves  from  sight. 

A  sweet  stream  entering  in 

Spread  over  me ; 
A  woman  cried,  '  'Tis  sin  ; 

I  know  he  covets  thee.' 
Answering  I  said, 

4  Pure  is  this  sin  and  sweet 
Upon  my  head 

And  round  my  travelled  feet.' 
16 


FOREST  POOL  CONFESSION 

Whispered  the  stream's  soft  voice 

Falling  from  my  hair, 
'  Child,  make  now  thy  choice.' 

Ah  !  he  was  fair. 
With  trembling  hands 

I  loosened  all  my  dress, 
At  his  command 

Gave  him  my  nakedness. 

I  fell  asleep, 

While  over  me  my  stream, 
Welling  deep, 

Led  dream  and  dream  and  dream, 
Waking  once  I  wept, 

Strangely  afraid ; 
Again  I  slept, 

Sleeping,  was  betrayed. 

Now,  like  the  silent  pool, 

I  lie  enchanted. 
Slave  am  I  to  a  hateful  ghoul. 

Love  is  supplanted. 
Love  was  my  king 

Until  I  savoured  Lust, 
Now  do  whose  beckoning 

I  not  will,  but  must. 


By  the  moonlit  pool  a  child 

Strayed  delighted, 
Coming  to  it  from  the  wild 

Unaffrighted. 
17 


INTERFLOW 

Undismayed  he  knelt 

By  its  margin,  where  no  child  should  linger, 
Laughed  and  felt 

The  white  water  dimpling  'neath  his  finger. 

Nothing  could  he  guess  (what  wonder  ?) 

Of  what  lay  secret, 
Of  what  shameful  things  lay  under 

That  white  coverlet. 
The  trees  never  stirred 

To  warn  him  ;  when  he  listened, 
Not  a  sound  he  heard  ; 

At  his  feet  the  water  tempted,  glistened. 

Warm  ringlets  made  way 

For  his  little  feet, 
For  his  whole  body  they 

Did  entreat. 
He  unshrinking  gave 

Himself  to  their  caresses, 
They — a  wet  grave 

And  muddied  tresses. 

Alone  beneath  the  moon 

I  hold  my  breath. 
The  widening  eddies  swoon 

As  still  as  death. 
I  wait ;  alone 

With  tight-clasped  hands  and  heart 
Heavy  as  stone 

I  wait — do  Thou  Thy  part. 
18 


SHE  LIES  BESIDE  THE  FIRE  ASLEEP 


OFTEN  SHE  LIES  BESIDE  THE  FIRE 
ASLEEP 

OFTEN  she  lies  beside  the  fire  asleep, 

Resting  white  limbs  on  soft  rich-coloured  furs, 
Till  some  uneasy  half-remembrance  stirs 

Within  her,  and  forgotten  shadows  creep, 

Like  pallid  prisoners,  from  the  mind's  dim  keep, 
Heeding  no  more  their  ancient  barriers  ; 
And  still  in  sleep  a  mist  of  sorrow  blurs 

The  image  of  her  dream  and  she  doth  weep, 

And  waking  to  her  self-imprisonment 
Abhors  her  couch,  and  rising  heavy-eyed 
With  swift  hot  fingers  throws  the  casement  wide 

To  the  cool  night  and  spacious  firmament ; 

And  through  the  still  air  floats  the  magic  scent 
Of  sleeping  flowers  in  the  field  outside. 


19 


INTERFLOW 


ON  VIOLA,  ASLEEP 

BEAUTIFUL  she  is,  as  when  the  peeping  sun 
Wakens  to  dewy  life  the  river  meadows 
And  pale  beams  slowly  thin  the  sulky  shadows, 

And  misty  glories  are  from  darkness  spun ; 

As  when  the  high  rich-cargued  galleon 

Of  day  departs,  and  all  her  pageant  follows, 
And  in  the  fields  the  evening  flight  of  swallows 

Earns  them  the  rest  that  else  was  lightly  won. 

So  beautiful  is  she ;  with  such  sweet  splendour 
Open  her  eyes  from  sleep,  or  smile  on  anger, 

Or  with  such  'graciousness  as  flowVs  own,  render 
Homage  to  sorrow  or  to  heavy  languour. 

But  if  she  wakes  to  tears,  or  smiles  in  sleeping, 

Tis  one  to  me,  for  either  sets  me  weeping. 


TO  THE  POETS 


TO  THE  POETS 

MASTERS  and  makers  of  language,  kings  of  song ! 
Each  brings  his  tribute  to  you,  as  I  must 
Bring  mine — this  little  heap  of  fugitive  dust, 

In  feeble  praise  of  you,  who  were  so  strong. 

Aye,  you  were  strong :  your  spirit  hands  did  break 
Earth's  tough  material  structure.  Like  the  cloud 
Lifting  at  dayrise  its  reluctant  shroud 

From  the  blue  bosom  of  the  sun-kissed  lake, 

So,  by  your  hands  dispersed,  this  tyrannous  veil 
Was  rapt  and  parted  and  your  brimming  eyes 

Suffered  the  light  and  knew  a  splendid  change. 
For  in  your  verse  life  all  transfigured  lies, 

And  strange  is  true,  and  truth  no  longer  strange, 

And  there  is  magic  in  the  humblest  tale. 


INTERFLOW 


TO  A  CERTAIN  POET 

LAY  down  the  veil :  the  vision 's  ended, 
The  vision  keen,  the  vision  splendid. 
Quickly  the  flame  dies  down  ;  so  must 
Thy  heart's  red  embers  turn  to  dust. 

In  barren  souls,  and  darkened  places ; 
In  bitter,  unillumined  faces ; 
In  the  waste  mind,  where  shadows  grope 
About  the  bier  of  shrouded  hope  ; 

In  the  half-night  of  sombre  hollows, 
Where  fear  beckons,  and  terror  follows ; 
In  every  man  who  lives  alone, 
His  slow  heart  growing  into  stone, 

If  still  some  trace  of  the  old  love  lingers, 
Therein  with  thy  magician's  fingers 
Scatter  a  handful  and  no  more 
Of  the  dust  that  lies  on  the  temple  floor. 

Our  spirit  faints,  the  whole  world  sickens. 
We  need  the  word  that  stabs  and  quickens. 
Go,  stab  thyself !  and  ere  thou  die 
Come  back,  pale  boy,  and  prophesy. 


THE  APPROACH  OF  LOVE 


THE  APPROACH  OF  LOVE 

FOR  many  weeks  I  "Ve  seen  him  coming  nearer. 
At  first  he  hovered,  timid  as  a  bird, 
And  started  back  at  every  sound  he  heard, 

Queer  wing-heeled  boy!  But  this,  in  truth,  is  queerer, 

That  it  escaped  me  he  was  growing  clearer; 

So  clear  now  and  so  close  !     His  cheek  is  furred 
With  down,  and  with  desire  his  breast  is  stirred. 

And  he  is  dear  to  me  and  each  day  dearer. 

Almost  to-night  I  seem  to  feel  his  breath 

Hot  and  sweet  in  my  face.     A  mad  swift  thrill 
Rushes  to  my  heart,  and  all  the  world  stands  still. 

Love,  is  it  thou  ?     I  ask.     He  nothing  saith, 

But  round  me  of  a  sudden  his  young  arm  clingeth, 
And  lip  to  lip  and  spirit  to  spirit  springeth. 


INTERFLOW 


TO 


SWEETHEART  !  It  really  is  fit  food  for  thought, 
That  though  already  I  Ve  written  you  a  sonnet, 
I  still  don't  know  your  Christian  name,  and  on  it 

I  therefore  cannot  spin  the  rhymes  I  ought. 

(Rhyme  spinning  on  Christian  names  is  merry  sport !) 
But,  Christian  names  apart,  your  surname's  done  it. 
Like  a  melodious  bee  in  an  empty  bonnet 

It  occupies  my  foolish  brains.     I  'm  caught ! 

I  "m  caught  at  last !     I  can't  hold  out  any  longer  ! 

When  first  I  saw  you,  I  knew  what  it  would  be. 

For  fifteen  months  I  kept  my  head.     But  see, 
I'm  on  my  knees  to  you.     You  are  the  stronger. 

For  all  your  slender  ness  of  limb  and  feature 

You've    mastered    me — you    Christian-nameless 
creature ! 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 


BEFORE  THE  DAWN 

THE  mist  is  still  upon  the  fields.     Ah,  go  ! 

Go  quickly,  sweet !  before  the  eaves-dropping  sun 

Surprise  our  secret  from  us.     What  is  done 
Is  done  for  ever,  ever  must  be  so. 
Come,  shed  no  tears ;  for  tears  can  be  of  no 

Avail  to  ravel  that  which  time  hath  spun. 

But  pray  that  the  little  love  which  we  have  won 
From  envious  time  may  in  time's  despite  grow. 

Be  it  thy  prayer  and  mine,  no  source  of  tears ! 

What  if  we  pray  in  lifelong  loneliness  ? 
I  shall  encounter  thee  in  Paradise. 

Thy  spirit  radiant  in  its  immortal  dress 
Shall  be  appointed  unto  me,  the  prize 
Of  stripling  Love,  who  outlasts  the  giant  years. 


INTERFLOW 


LOVE  IN  MAY 

THE  hills  lie  sleeping  in  the  hot  spring  sun ; 

And,  as  enchanted  by  some  lazy  charm, 
We  two  lie  dreaming,  till  the  day  is  done 

And  the  cool  evening  leads  us  to  the  farm. 

O  sweet  long  days,  each  longer  than  the  last  ! 

O  sweet  still  nights,  when  through  the  window 

wide 
Steals  the  warm  breeze,  and  all  the  day  just  passed 

Is  like  a  dream  remembered  by  thy  side ! 

O  silent  rapture,  growing  with  the  dawn ! 

When  I  awake  to  see  the  first  pale  rays 
Fall  timidly  upon  thy  cheek  and  fawn 

About  thy  clustering  hair  in  suppliant  ways  ! 

Sweet  days  !  sweet  nights  !  alas,  the  end  comes  soon  ; 

Too  soon  the  vision  spends  itself  and  dies ; 
Too  soon  the  morning  passes  into  noon, 

And  Love  goes  lamely  in  an  altered  guise. 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  HIS  LOVE 


A  MESSAGE  FROM  HIS  LOVE 

OUT  of  encircling  silence  grows 

Thy  soft  voice  of  a  sudden,  friend ; 
Thy  self,  like  windy  fragrance,  blows, 
The  fragrance  of  a  garden  rose, 
Blows  on  me.     And  my  soul  is  wrought 
To  sudden  and  uplifting  thought, 
And  her  uneasy  time  is  at  an  end. 

Across  the  Italian  lakes  it  came, 

By  Alpine  passes,  and  above 
The  darkened  plain  of  France,  a  flame 
By  starlight  running  to  its  aim. 
And  now  the  early  morning  breeze 
Hath  brought  it  over  chilly  seas 

To  me  at  waking — '  I  am  with  thee.  Love. 


INTERFLOW 


FOREBODING 

Lo,  from  the  dark  my  candle  shining  gravely 
Wins  for  me  her  gold  and  spends  it  bravely. 
Breathes  but  the  night,  so  must  she   quake   and 

gutter. 
Ah  me !  how  frail  the  flame,  the  dark  how  utter  ! 

So  you  stand,  a  little  dim  flame  burning 

In  my  soul,  whereunto  I  returning 

Grope  my  ways  through  dark  and  sad  approaches, 

Crumbling  paths  where  the  wild  sea  encroaches. 

Ah  !  the  fear  that  some  day  in  the  forest 

In  the  dangerous  places  thou  abhorrest, 

I  '11  be  seeking,  solitary,  grimly, 

While  at  home  thy  light  fails,  flickering  dimly. 

Ah  !  if  ever  I  should  lose  thy  golden 
Glimmer  in  my  soul,  if  unbeholden 
Thou  shouldst  die,  alone  and  unattended, — 
Love  is  dead  in  me  and  hope  is  ended. 


DEPARTURE 


DEPARTURE 

HERE,  where  all  ways  together  meet, 
Here  must  we  halt,  make  our  farewells ; 
And  while  with  lightly  jingling  bells 

Your  carriage  fares  along  the  street, 

Here  must  I  stand,  until  the  beat 
Of  horses1  hooves  no  longer  tells 
That  you  are  near,  and  silence  knells 

Death  to  the  old  life  and  the  sweet. 

O,  hardly,  hardly,  hardly  dies 

What  could  not  die  within  my  heart, 
Did  Time  not  know  the  cruel  art 

Of  crushing  useless  poignancies. 

There  will  be  many  heaved  sighs, 

And  many  times  the  old  wound  will  start, 
And  many  times  I  will  go  apart 

To  let  the  hot  tears  blind  my  eyes. 


INTERFLOW 


CRI  DU  COEUR 

IT  cannot  ever  be  again  ! 

O  Love,  is  this  the  last  sad  epitaph 

Of  all  my  hopes,  of  all  my  joy  and  pain  ? 

Never  to  watch  again 

Thy  sweet  lips  parted  for  the  low  sweet  laugh, 

Nor  kiss  away  the  tears  that  thou  couldst  not  refrain. 

The  cup  stood  brimming  full  for  me  to  quaff, 

And  now — it  cannot  ever  be  again ! 

It  cannot  ever  be  again  ! 

Why  do  I  sit  here,  by  the  perished  fire 

In  this  cold  room,  with  sick  and  fevered  brain  ? 

Never  to  thrill  again, 

Like  the  poor  broken  lyre 

Hanging  forlorn  in  the  deserted  fane, 

To  that  deft  touch  which  only  could  inspire 

Its  trembling  chords  to  every  passionate  strain. 


30 


LOVE  REMEMBERED 


LOVE  REMEMBERED 

1  HAD  forgotten  how,  in  long  past  days, 

I  threw  the  reins  loose  on  love's  straining  neck, 
And,  when  my  chariot  came  to  sudden  wreck, 

For  my  escape  I  gave  God  coward's  praise. 

I  had  forgotten  those  enfevered  ways, 

The  haggard  hours,  when  I  did  nothing  reck 
But  how  I  might  be  ever  at  love's  beck, 

Serving  love's  latest  whim,  love's  maddest  craze. 

These  things  I  had  forgotten,  and  I  deemed 

Myself  the  soberest  votary  of  all, 

Who  worship  at  the  shrine  of  common  things  : 
Until  you  played  to  me,  and  straight  it  seemed 

That  without  love  life  is  a  barren  wall 

Beside  a  desolate  road,  where  no  flower  springs. 


31 


INTERFLOW 


AWAKENING 

So  long  the  night, 

I  had  almost  forgotten  the  day, 
When  we  watched  the  crimson  light 

Of  the  evening  fade  away. 

And  cold  and  chill, 

As  the  endless  dark  of  the  north, 
There  gathered  about  my  will 

A  cloud  of  dull  wrath. 

Unlock  me  the  treasure, 

Dear  child,  who  hast  taught  me  again 
The  sorrow  of  smiles  and  the  pleasure 

Hid  in  the  heart  of  pain  ! 


IN  A  ROOM 


IN  A  ROOM 

I  LIKE  best  when  you  lie  at  my  feet 

In  front  of  a  low  red  fire, 
And  the  room  is  dim-lighted  and  sweet 

With  the  smell  of  your  old  black  briar. 

I  like  best  when  your  fingers  travel 

Over  the  red-lit  pages, 
Hard  at  work  to  unravel 

Secrets  of  other  ages. 

And  the  kettle  is  vexed,  and  persists 

In  steaming  a  stern  disapproval 
Of  such  methods  of  work,  and  insists 

On  its  instant  removal. 

I  like  best  to  look  up  at  the  ceiling 

And  watch  with  vague  eyes 
The  shadows 'come  silently  stealing 

To  take  the  firelight  by  surprise, 

Pouncing  out  from  their  dark  hiding-places 
Like  ghostly  black  kittens  at  play  ; 

When  he  scolds  them  they  mock  and  make  faces 
And  scamper  away. 


INTERFLOW 

I  like  best  to  lie  still  and  dream 

Of  a  long-ago  nursery  bed, 
And  the  fire  as  it  used  to  seem 

To  a  little  drowsyhead ; 

And  to  hear  all  the  while  on  my  right 

The  patter  of  filmy  feet, 
As  your  thoughts  flutter  down  and  alight 

Thick  and  fast  on  the  written  sheet. 

So  I  doze,  and  you  write,  till  an  ember 

Falls  noisily  into  the  grate, 
And  I  come  back  to  life  and  remember 

That  dinner's  at  eight. 


OLD  LOVE 


OLD  LOVE 

I  NEVEH  saw  the  stars  so  bright ; 

They  never  shone  before  with  such  fierce  light 

As  on  this  cold,  clear  night. 

It  seems  to  me  that  up  till  now 

My  life  has  been  content  always  to  flow 

Too  sluggishly,  too  slow. 

To-night  I  '11  live,  I  '11  love,  I  '11  taste 

Joys  unattempted  yet.     My  blood  's  afire.     O  waste 

Of  my  hot  youth  !     Haste,  haste  ! 

Lifting  the  latchet  of  the  gate, 

Something  within  me  bids  me  stand  and  wait 

Before  it  be  too  late. 

The  quiet  sky,  with  stars  aflame, — 
Did  I  not  see  it  long  ago  the  same, 
When  my  Love  named  my  name  ? 

O  Heaven  !     What  sin  is  this, 

To  sell  my  memories  of  unstained  bliss 

For  one  polluted  kiss  ! 

Back  to  the  curtained  room,  the  glow 
Of  warm  fireside,  the  old  books  that  I  know, 
And  my  Love  of  long  ago. 
35 


INTERFLOW 


SPRING  DAY 

(Ox  THE  MALVERN  HILLS) 

DOWN  the  dust-ridden  highroads  go 
The  windy  turmoils  of  the  spring, 

Tost  back  and  forth  and  to  and  fro, 
Tempestuously  echoing. 

High,  high,  above  the  smooth  swept  hills, 
Cloud  following  cloud  from  the  clear  North, 

Borne  onward  silent,  stately,  still, 

Fares  out  and  forth,  fares  out  and  forth. 

Here  in  a  sun-warmed  sheltered  place 
I  lie  midway  'tween  gods  and  men, 

Above  their  blind  and  furious  race, 
Beneath  their  universal  ken. 


FEBRUARY  MORNING 


FEBRUARY  MORNING 

LET  me  upon  the  Future  and  the  Past 

My  souPs  eyes  no  more  cast ; 

Let  me,  beholding  hedges  stript  and  trees 

Naked  to  the  Northern  breeze, 

Unbare  me  ^neath  the  frost-blue  even  as  these. 

Hard  is  the  ringing  road,  pale  the  hoar  fields, 

Still  the  white  mist-robe  shields 

Each  shrinking  hollow  ;  scarcely  has  the  sun 

His  young  dominion  won. 

Scarce  do  the  feeble  clouds  before  him  run. 

It  is  sufficient.     In  this  moment  I 

Question  no  by  and  by. 

It  does  content  me  that  the  morning  air 

Is  keen,  that  everywhere 

Some  spirit  is  moving,  blithe  and  sweet  and  rare. 


INTERFLOW 


THE  MIRACLE 

FROM  a  chasm  carved  in  brown  crumbling  earth, 

A  red  bare  rent  in  the  green  hillside, 

A  hungry  fissure  lean  and  dried, 

Like  a  cruel  scar  or  an  ugly  weal, 

Or  an  obstinate  wound  that  will  not  heal, 

There  came  a  wonderful  thing  to  birth — 

A  thin  clear  stream,  that  tumbled  down 

From  the  tip  of  this  tongue  of  thirsting  brown, 

Over  ice-worn  boulders  and  sculptured  ledge, 

And  gravelled  shallows  and  marshy  sedge, 

A  mischievous  little  imp  of  an  elf, 

Jumping  from  shelf  to  rocky  shelf, 

Here  a  moment  and  then  down  there, 

With  drops  of  water  for  locks  of  hair, 

And  the  twinkling  feet  of  a  water-gnome, 

And  a  thin-spun  shirt  of  gossamy  foam. 

Swiftly  down  the  steep  he  fled, 

Till  he  slipped  and  fell  in  his  pebbly  bed. 

Then  over  he  rolled  upon  the  ground 

Faster  and  faster  and  round  and  round, 

With  snatches  of  laughter  and  catches  of  song, 

As  he  found  himself  merrily  bouncing  along, 

Flinging  defiance  at  the  breeze, 

'  For  you ',  said  he,  '  are  old  and  wheeze, 


THE  MIRACLE 

And,  however  you  puff  and  however  you  blow, 
You  can't  stop  me  where  I  want  to  go ! ' 
Then  all  at  once  the  little  rover 
Reached  a  tall  cliff  and  slid  right  over, 
And  fell  into  a  deep,  clear  pool, 
Sunny  and  yet  most  sweet  and  cool. 
And  there  he  lay  for  an  hour  or  more, 
Breathless  upon  its  sandy  floor. 
But  I  Ve  no  breath  left  to  tell  anything,  save 
That  he  grew  to  be  solemn  and  grand  and  grave, 
And  at  last  (I  "m  afraid  you  must  take  it  from  me) 
He  went  down  soberly  into  the  sea. 


39 


INTERFLOW 


LINES  WRITTEN   AT  WASTDALE   HEAD 

THE  Pageantry 

Of  the  mid-night  sky 

In  summer,  when  the  clouds  are  few, 

From  evening 

Till  the  dawn-birds  sing 

Streams  statelily  past  the  darkling  blue. 

The  mountains  dark 

Keep  silence.     Hark ! 

There  is  no  sound  in  all  their  places. 

They  fear  to  wake 

The  slumberous  lake 

That  lies  moon-charmed  in  their  embraces. 


40 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG 


AN  AUTUMN  SONG 

WHO  can  feel  sorrow 

In  wind  and  rain, 
When  the  hill-tops  borrow 

Sun  from  the  plain, 
And  swift  after  cloud 

Cloud  follows  apace, 
And  the  Heavens  are  loud 

With  the  song  of  their  chase  ? 

A  rout  of  red  leaves 

Whirls  past  and  away, 
As  the  twilight  retrieves 

Her  lost  share  in  the  day. 
And  who  can  feel  sorrow 

In  wind  and  rain, 
Though  a  stormy  to-morrow 

Brings  both  back  again  ? 


INTERFLOW 


NOCTURNE 

THE  summits  of  the  western  hills 

Are  red  with  western  fire. 
Now  memory  of  old  love  kills 

The  strength  of  new  desire. 
Now,  as  the  face  of  him  loved  best, 

My  manhood  fails  and  falls, 
And  new-awakened  in  my  breast 

The  child-soul  stirs  and  calls. 


There  is  a  music  in  the  sky, 

And  earth  lies  still  to  hear, 
While  Heaven's  ethereal  harmony 

Sweeps  on  its  high  career. 
Are  not  the  stones  all  listening, 

And  every  restless  leaf? 
And  my  own  eyes  are  glistening 

With  tears,  but  not  for  grief. 


Night  gathers  on  the  glooming  sea, 
And  like  a  ship  becalmed 

Not  yet  on  slow  wing  comes  to  me  ; 
She  too,  it  seems,  is  charmed. 


NOCTURNE 

And  there  is  time  to  rest,  as  who, 
Enchanted  in  the  waving  fern, 

Sees  one  star  glimmer  in  the  blue ; 
No  more  can  he  discern. 

And  somewhere  Time  himself  has  stayed 

His  feet  and  lies  asleep ; 
And  round  him,  who  must  be  obeyed, 

Slow  hours  impatient  creep. 
And  rapt  afar  one  worker  stands 

Leaving  his  task  undone  ; 
In  his  frail  glass  the  ceaseless  sands 

Have  ceased  awhile  to  run. 

Of  late  I  drew  my  breath  and  sighed  ; 

My  eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 
But  I  have  lightly  laid  aside 

The  vestiture  of  years. 
Now,  as  a  mother's  arms  uphold 

Her  children  to  her  face, 
Earth's  fastnesses  and  valleys  fold 

Myself  in  their  embrace. 

Ah,  wonderful  to  me  and  strange 

Forgetfulness  of  pain  ! 
Faint  presage  of  that  greater  change, 

Which  all  things  shall  sustain. 
Meantime  the  dew  shines  on  the  leaf, 

The  moonlight  through  the  sea-born  spray, 
And  life's  small  bitterness  and  grief 

Are  less  to  me  than  they. 


INTERFLOW 


OTIA  DIA 

LAZILY  lie  we  in  the  long  deep  grass, 
Watching  the  clouds,  one  by  one,  slowly  pass, 
Seeking  nothing,  seeing  nothing,  but  the  waving 

grass  and  sky, 
Cradled  in  these  thyme-sweet  meadows,  dreaming, 

dreaming,  till  we  die. 

Soft  as  the  breathing  of  a  child  asleep, 

Sadder  than  the  saddest  tears  men  weep, 

Sweet  as  honey,  pure  as  silver,  stranger  than  each 

day's  new  birth, 

Music — breathes  and  trembles   always  in  the   un- 
trodden parts  of  earth. 

Labour  an  hour,  then  rest  and  toil  no  more. 
What  need  of  aching  limbs,  hearts  bruised  and  sore  ? 
Vain  it  is  to  seek  for  ever  ;  leave  the  undiscovered 

good; 
Rest  is  here,  beside  the  river  and  the  magic-haunted 

wood. 


44 


RED  WINE  OF  SUNSET 


RED  WINE  OF  SUNSET 

FOR  an  hour  past  I  have  watched  alone 

The  pale  gold  at  the  river  bend 
Redden  into  a  deeper  tone, 

Betokening  the  end. 

In  a  brief  while  the  carmine  tint 
Must  perish  in  the  grey  half-light, 

And  the  stream  will  take  a  leaden  glint 
From  the  coming  of  night. 

Could  I  stay  the  sun  by  some  wizardry  . 

For  a  lazy  hour  at  the  world's  red  rim, 
Ere  he  dips  under  the  cloud-sea, 

The  stars  following  him. 

Could  I  lie  here  as  I  lie  now, 

Like  a  jewel  dropped  from  the  blazing  skies 
On  the  bosom  of  earth,  I  might  loose  somehow 

My  shamefullest  ties. 

Like  a  pearl  dropped  in  a  golden  bowl, 
I  might  almost  think  in  the  sun^s  red  wine 

Melting  the  substance  of  my  soul 
To  find  the  divine. 

45 


INTERFLOW 


'THE  LONG  CLOUDS  STRETCH  OVER 
THE  HILLS' 

THE  long  clouds  stretch  over  the  hills, 

Behind  which,  out  of  my  sight,  even  now  the  sun  is 

setting. 
As  for  me,  I  am   under  the  shadow  of  the  great 

mountains ; 
Darkness  is  upon  me,  and  the  first  oncomings  of 

night, 
And  the  cold  wind  of  the  evening,  which  comes  down 

from  the  passes  at  nightfall, 
Mocking  my  desire  for  the  spring, 
Because  of  the  promise  which  has  thrilled  the  air  all 

day  long. 

But  the  long  clouds,  stretching  over  the  hills, 

They  see  what  I  cannot  see — the  sun 

Setting  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  mountains. 

Though  I  stand  up  and  cry  aloud  : 

O  ye  clouds,  ye  who  stretch  over  the  hills, 

Take  me  up  into  the  blue  heaven,  where  I  may  lie 

at  my  ease  with  you, 
With  you  beholding  the  sun  as  he  goes  down  to  his 

rest  behind  the  great  mountains, 
No  answer  comes  in  the  wide,  bare  silence, 
The  silence  of  night  approaching  the  day  and  of  day 

watching  the  night. 

46 


<  LONG  CLOUDS  STRETCH  OVER  HILLS ' 

Nevertheless,  in  the  clouds  stretching  over  the  hills 
My  answer  is  given  me,  there  my  answer  is  written, 
Not  in  words,  but  as  a  painter  puts  his  message 

into  a  picture, 
Plain  and  clear  to  all,  were  it  not  for  the  many  who 

cannot  see ; 
Or  as  the  Beloved  in  the  face  down-turned  to  the 

lover 
Answers  him  without  words,  with  a  look,  a  smile,  a 

quiet  regard ; 

In  such  manner  have  I  read  my  answer, 
Not  so  much  to  the  foolish  words,  but  to  the  un- 
spoken yearning  behind  them. 

O  splendid  clouds,  ye  who  stretch  over  the  hills, 
Burning  and  glowing  with  all  and  more  than  all  the 

colours  of  bright  flame, 
Ye  beautiful  slumberers,  ravished  by  the  sun's  last 

rays, 

Ye  transfigured  victims  of  his  passionate  embraces, 
Ye,  who,  dying,  encumber  the  serene  air, 
Strewn  wreckage  of  love  on  the  surface  of  the  un- 

.impassioned  blue — 

If  in  me,  who  behold  only  the  reflected  glory, 
Your  loveliness  wrenches  at  the  strings  of  my  being, 
How  should  I  behold  his  glory,  his  loveliness, 
How  endure  his  love? 

Ye  splendid  clouds,  ye  who  stretch  over  the  hills, 
Who  burn  and  glow  and  are  ravished  by  the  dying 

sun, 
Ye  are  his  creatures ;  he  made  you  that  he  might 

again  unmake  you ; 

47 


INTERFLOW 

He  made  you  for  this  end,  to  die  gloriously  in  the 

calm  evening  sky, 

To  be  his  witness,  to  testify  to  his  love, 
Before  the  unseeing  eyes,  the  unconsidering  mind. 
When  I  saw  him  by  day,  I  cried  out  and  covered 

my  eyes, 
And   was  glad  when  the  sombre  clouds  hid  him 

from  my  sight. 

Fool  that  I  was !     Now  comes  the  thankless  dark, 
And  the  sombre  clouds  are  no  longer  sombre  but 

beautiful, 
Because  they  have  found  favour  before  him. 

I  am  answered.     I  have  read  my  answer  aright. 

Look  !  even  now,  the  colours  are  fading, 

The  clouds,  a  moment  ago  so  splendid, 

Once    more    are    sombre,    their    cold    forms    are 

surrendered  to  the  night. 
But  as  for  me,  I  shall  not  forget, 
I  will  watch  all  the  night  long  until  the  dawn. 
When  he  comes  I  will  greet  him  with  a  song, 
With  eyes  and  heart  all  on  fire  with  love. 
I  will  spread  my  arms  wide,  I  will  cast  myself  on 

the  ground  before  him, 

I  will  not  avoid  him,  I  will  be  glad  and  not  ashamed, 
And  he  will  raise  me  up. 


MOUNTAIN,  FOREST,  AND  PLAIN 


MOUNTAIN,  FOREST,  AND  PLAIN 

AMONG  the  mountains,  in  the  moving  mists, 

Old  men  see  strange  faces,  children  dream  strange 

dreams ; 
In  the  hill-wind,  blowing  where  it  lists, 

Old   men  hear  wild  voices,   children   hear   wild 

screams. 

When  the  heavy  winter,  labouring  and  slow, 
Lifts  the  pall  of  rain,  and  lays  the  counterpane  of 

snow, 

Dreams  and  visions,  ecstasies  and  fears 
Vanish  from  the  sun  and  his  array  of  sparkling 

spears. 

Among  the  forests,  when  the  day 's  at  end, 

Old  men  sit  beside  the  fire  and  watch  the  flicker- 
ing flames ; 
Those  that  go  musing,  where  tree  and  shadow  blend, 

Hear  softly  whispered  old  half-familiar  names. 
Sleeping  in  the  forest,  in  an  ancient  room, 
Whose  secret  casements  open  out  upon  the  wood- 
land gloom, 

Children  all  the  night  long  hear  beneath  the  eaves 
Murmurs  of  an  ancient  world  which  haunts   the 
ancient  leaves. 
D  49 


INTERFLOW 

Not  upon  the  mountain,  neither  in  the  wood, 

Comes  the  clearest  vision,  freest  dream  of  fear  and 

pain ; 

Free  comes  the  dream  to  man,  clearly  understood, 
When  he  labours  at  his  work  upon  the  ripening 

plain ; 

When  in  one  endeavour  bended  back  and  brow 
Bring  all  his  labour  to  fulfilment  here  and  now, 
God  speaks  him  clearest,  and  the  voice  he  hears 
Likest  is  to  man's  voice  heard  across  the  flooding 

years. 

God  walks  in  the  fields  and  on  the  low  foot-hills. 
Knee-deep  in  the  corn  He  walks  and  knee-deep  in 

the  brook  ; 
His  hand  it  is  that  turns  the  great  windmills, 

His  breath  passed  across  the  plain,  when  all  the 

grass- heads  shook. 

Old  men  see  Him  walking,  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  a  man  may  gaze  upon  the  light  and  yet  not 

frown. 
There  have  I,  too,  seen  Him ;  Him  my  sun-blest 

eyes 
Saw,  the  Gardener,  in  His  Garden,  at  His  mysteries. 


50 


A  BOAT  OF  SILVER' 


4  A  BOAT  OF  SILVER1 

A  BOAT  of  silver  on  a  sleeping  sea ! 

It  is  a  wind  from  Paradise  that  blows 
This  silver  ship  across  the  sea  to  me, 

A  dream-wind — where  it  lit  no  ripple  rose. 
No  ripple  is  risen  on  the  sleeping  sea ; 
Yet  still  the  boat  draws  nearer  glidingly, 

A  dream-boat — 'tis  a  dream  without  a  close  ! 


51 


INTERFLOW 


'I  HEARD  A  VOICE' 

I  HEARD  a  voice  that  fell  from  note  to  note, 

Like  falling  water  from  ledge  to  mossgrown  ledge. 

From  the  blue  sky  it  fell,  from  a  bird's  throat, 
Thin  ribbon  of  sweet  sound  ;  and  at  the  edge 

Of  a  deep  pool  of  silence  faltered,  where  the  lilies 
float. 


ON  LEAVING  OXFORD 


ON  LEAVING  OXFORD 

Lo,  as  I  strayed,  Time  with  his  noiseless  feet 

Has  tracked  me  down,  and  found  me  idly  sleeping. 

Lo,  now  he  takes  the  lead,  while  I  entreat 

One  hour  for  making  my  good-byes  and  weeping. 

But  he  holds  up  his  hand,  and  I — I  feel 

The  end,  I  hear  the  bells  begin  their  last  sad  peal. 

As  one  who  climbs  and  turning  unaware 
Sees  at  his  feet  the  city  of  his  dreams, 

Too  late.     For  he  must  journey  otherwhere, 
Who  lived  unseeing  beside  her  silent  streams. 

So  is  it,  Oxford,  between  me  and  thee : 

I  saw  thee  not,  whom  now  for  the  last  time  I  see. 


INTERFLOW 


A  LAMENT  OVER  THE  CITY  OF  LONDON 

POOR  aimless  footsteps,  all  day  long 
That  pass  my  window,  out  of  sight, 
That  pause  not  till  the  summer  night 

And  start  while  still  the  dawn  is  young. 

Whence  do  you  come  and  whither  go, 
And  on  what  errands  are  you  bent  ? 
Desire  of  what  extreme  event 

Drives  you  thus  restless  to  and  fro  ? 

Were  there  a  million  secret  joys 
Imprisoned  in  these  stony  lanes, 
Then  could  I  understand  your  pains, 

I  might  interpret  this  mad  noise. 

But  here  joy  hath  not  shown  her  face 
Since  from  the  murky  mind  of  man 
His  blackened  offspring  overran 

London — that  was  so  fair  a  place. 

Ah  !  can  these  be  the  feet  of  those 
Who  lived  and  loved  her  long  ago, 
When  sweet  and  fresh  the  Thames  did  flow, 

And  she  bloomed  sweetly  as  the  rose  ? 
54 


A  LAMENT  OVER  THE  CITY  OF  LONDON 

Is  there  among  your  number  he 

Who  sang  of  London  as  '  the  flower 
Of  cities  alP,  in  her  fair  hour 

'  The  jasper  of  jocundity  '  ? 

Nay,  nay ;  not  so  unkind  is  Fate 
(Though  Fate  be  cruel,  as  I  guess). 
Him  will  not  she,  for  shame,  unbless ; 

He  knows  not  of  our  altered  state. 

Hangs  overhead  the  heavy  pall ; 

Flows  ever  the  drab  human  tide ; 

The  uncouth  din  doth  not  subside ; 
The  very  stones  aloud  do  call. 

This  is  our  state.     We  are  thrice-blest 
If  under  favouring  winds  we  see 
That  still  the  eternal  canopy 

Of  azure  bends  from  East  to  West. 

But  sometimes  over  slated  roof 
I  mark  the  slopes  of  Heaven  afire. 
Ah  !  then  flames  out  the  old  desire 

For  the  dear  gods,  who  stand  aloof. 


55 


INTERFLOW 


«  O  THAT  I  HAD  A  COTTAGE  ON  A  HILL ' 

O  THAT  I  had  a  cottage  on  a  hill 

With  windows  opening  over  a  blue  plain, 

Where  I  might  rest  my  elbows  on  the  sill 
And  gaze  abroad  and  read  and  gaze  again. 

O  that  I  had  a  homestead  ringed  with  trees, 

Where  I  might  seek  the  sun  between  green  boughs, 

And  sit  and  hear  all  day  the  hum  of  bees, 

The  songs  of  birds,  the  sounds  of  sheep  and  cows. 

O  that  I  had  a  great  house  in  a  park, 

Where  the  sun  leads  slow  shadows  o'er  long  lawns, 
With  woods  where  nightingales  sing  after  dark, 

Wrapped  in  red  twilights  and  empurpling  dawns. 

O  that  I  had  a  castle  on  a  rock, 

Whose  rooms  the  restless  murmur  of  the  sea 
Never  forsakes,  so  builded  as  to  mock 

The  waves  and  winds  and  their  joint  enmity. 

Mine  is  nor  hillside  cottage,  nor  deep  tree- 
Embowertl  farm,  nor  spacious  country-seat, 

Nor  castle  on  a  cliff;  only,  ah  me  ! 
A  lodging  in  a  noisy  London  street. 
56 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  RICHMOND  PARK 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  RICHMOND  PARK 

Now  from  the  monster's  entrails  I  have  fled, 

Into  light  out  of  dark, 
With  many  thousands  likewise  vomited 

On  common  and  park. 

Here  do  we  laugh  and  talk  and  wander 

One  long  afternoon. 
Gold  of  the  sun  is  given  us  to  squander, 

But  'tis  spent  so  soon  ! 

In  Sunday  splendour  man  and  maid  together 

Stroll  down  each  lane. 
She  wears  her  properest  feather, 

He  swings  his  cane. 

Three  hours,  two  hours,  only  one  hour  longer  ! 

Then  home  we  go, 
Dusty  and  hot  and  tired,  but  stronger 

Than  yet  we  know. 


57 


INTERFLOW 


JUNE  DAY 

THE  hills  have  hidden  the  clouds,  and  the  birds  are 

singing, 
And  the  sun  is  out ;  and  the  earth  is  sweet  after 

the  rain ; 
And  it  seems  as  if  there  were  neither  grief  nor 

pain 
Abroad  in  England  to-day  with  the  church  bells 

ringing, 
And  the  flowers  of  June  unfolding,  and  the  green 

trees  flinging 
Garlanded  arms  to  the  sky  across  the  lane. 

But  what  are  rain  and  sun  to  an  old  blind  cripple  ? 
And  what  to  me  who  am  blind  and  crippled  in 

heart  ? 

He  lives  in  a  world  of  his  own,  remote  and  apart ; 
Small  joy    he   has   from   the    tiny   sound   of  the 

ripple 
On  the  unseen  lake,  or  the  lamb  at  its  mother's 

nipple, 

Or  all  the  flowers  that  blossom  and  birds  that 
dart. 

58 


JUNE  DAY 

And  I  too  live  in  a  world  where  no  sun  has  lighted 
With  fires  of  love  and  knowledge  the  mists  of 

despair, 

Where  no  sweet  flowers  glow  in  the  radiant  air, 
And  eyes  that  strain  in  the  dark  are  no  more  requited 
By  a  white  dawn  over  distant  mountains  sighted, 
By  the  feet  of  the  flaming  sun  on  his  cloudy  stair. 

O  flowers  in  the  park  beneath  my  window  blooming, 
O  birds  whose  singing  makes  the  young  trees 

glorious ; 
In  you  are  love  and  life  revealed  victorious, 

But  lo  !  beyond  you  as  a  veil  Death  glooming. 

Sweet  slaves,  who  no  immortal  mien  assuming 
Sing  in  the  face  of  Death,  sing  on,  incurious  ! 

Like  you  I  might  bow  down  to  that  dark  Power. 

This  torrent  of  days  might  flow  like  a  simple  tale. 

But  the  feet  of  man  are  unresting,  the  feet  of  man 

scale 

A  ladder  of  perilous  steps  in  a  windy  tower. 
And  whoso  attains  the  summit,  at  his  last  hour 

He  looketh  far  beyond  river  and  hill  and  dale. 


59 


INTERFLOW 


MORNING 

(Ax  HIGHGATE) 

FROM  rny  bedroom  window  looking  over  London 
Lying  in  the  night  awake  I  see  the  stars  burning. 
Through  the  summer  darkness  I  mark  them  slowly 

turning, 

Paling  from  the  East  in  quiet  self-abandon. 
Now  strips  the  Dawn  countless  roofs  of  countless 

houses, 

Simple  fare  for  eyes  which  are  wearied  of  starlight, 
Stealing  up  and  swelling  from  that  first  faint  and 

far  light, 

Till  the  great  theme  bursts,  and   Earth  her  Sun 
espouses. 

Marriest  thou,  O  Sun,  thy  stainless  splendour 
Unto   the   dark,   the   grime,   the    sweat- stained 

travail  ? 

At  thy  will  marriest  ?     Dost  not  abhor,  nor  cavil  ? 
Unto  thy  Lord  what  tale  of  us  wilt  render 
Thou  at  the  day's  end,  as  in  angry  brightness 
Turning  thy  back  on  the  smoke  of  our  city 
Thou  goest  homewards  ?    Ah  !  not  scorn,  but  pity 
Need  we  now.     We  need  thee,  thou  Golden  White- 
ness! 

60 


MORNING 


MORNING 

(AT  GOFF'S  OAK) 

THE  wind  that  murmured  night- long  in  the  elm, 
The  old  tall  elm-tree  leaning  to  the  eaves, 

Is  hushed,  and  the  moon  has  dipped  her  glowing 

helm 
Under  the  hedge  ;  for  a  greater  wonder  cleaves 

The  billowy  clouds  and  rides  the  paling  sky. 

Night  dies,  day  lives,  away  all  night  thoughts  fly. 

Light  and  bright  with  the  sun  is  the  room  where  I 

sleep. 

Light  is  my  heart  as  I  dress,  and  half-dressed  lean 
Over  the  sill ;  and  sweet  is  the  air  and  deep 

The  scent  of  the  hay  new-mown,  and  fresh  and 

green 

The  pasturage  under  my  window,  and  everything 
Silent  but  that  the  cattle  feed  and  the  birds  sing. 


61 


INTERFLOW 


HOLIDAY  SONG 

THE  fields  and  woods  and  little  brooks, 
The  grass,  the  leaves,  the  wide  clear  sky, 
The  hill-tops  where  the  clouds  drift  by, 
The  birds  and  the  rough  song  of  rooks. 
The  scent  of  hay,  the  smell  of  flowers, 
The  consciousness  of  inner  powers, 
Cleanness  of  sight  and  sense  and  limb. 
The  spirit's  eye  not  yet  grown  dim, 
The  ardent  soul  hot  to  pursue 
All  phantom  beauties  in  its  view, 
The  ardent  soul  that  then  adored, 
That  then  in  curving  visions  soared. 
Winged  by  desire,  to  some  high  throne, 
Where  some  un fancied  splendour  shone — 
This  was  a  Life  to  dream  upon  ! 

The  shining  sun  in  the  mountain  tarn, 
The  shining  snows  on  the  mountain  height, 
The  shining  stars  athwart  the  night, 
The  shining  moon  above  the  tarn 
Shine  on  me  now  !  and  through  me  pierce 
The  wind  that  bloweth  free  and  fi.erce ! 
I  would  be  as  the  bitten  rocks, 
I  would  be  as  the  grazing  flocks, 
62 


HOLIDAY  SONG 

The  grazing  flocks  on  the  hill-brow 
Beneath  the  everlasting  snow. 

Too  long  have  I  in  cities  dwelt, 

Too  long  have  I  bent  over  books  : 

I  do  forget  how  the  great  sea  looks, 

And  how  the  breath  of  the  ocean  smelt. 

I  knew  him  when  I  was  a  boy, 

I  knew  the  salt,  salt  taste  of  joy, 

His  stinging  kisses  in  my  face — 

What  mystery  is  this  of  place  ? 

Why  must  I  be  for  ever  bound 

To  this  square  patch  of  crowded  ground  ? 

I  will  escape,  and  go  and  taste 

Once  more  the  breath  of  that  salt  waste. 

Eastward  and  Westward  to  the  sea ; 

Northward  and  Southward  to  the  hills ; 

Inland,  where  fruitful  Autumn  spills 

Her  store  of  plenty  on  her  knee — 

It  matters  not  which  way  I  go 

Nor  which  way  fall  these  dice  I  throw, 

So  I  re-capture  innocence 

And  make  the  past  the  present  tense. 


INTERFLOW 


IT  IS  OFTEN  THAT  I  HAVE  HEARD  HER 
CALLING ' 

IT  is  often  that  I  have  heard  her  calling 

In  the  evening  of  the  day. 
Often  have  I  seen  her  shadow  falling 

Down  the  westering  way, 
Down  my  road  to  the  westward  leading, 

Down  the  road  by  which  I  climb 
Yonder,  where  the  sun  lies  bleeding 

At  the  end  of  time. 

It  is  often  that  I  have  heard  her  saying, 

'  Will  you  not  come  back  to  me  ? ' 
Far  have  I  been  straying,  long,  long  delaying ; 

But  wherever  I  might  be, 
Hers  are  all  the  bells  I  hear  ringing, 

All  streams  which  wander  slow ; 
All  flowers  upon  earth  upspringing 

In  her  heart  grow. 

It  is  often  that  I  have  answered,  sighing, 

As  a  lad  sighs  deep  for  home, 
'  How  shall  one,  the  many  Fates  defying, 

To  the  one  sure  refuge  come  ? 
One  is  one,  and  there  be  many  groping 

As  a  blind  man  toward  the  door ; 
But  the  most  for  all  their  hoping, 

See  her  face  no  more." 

64      ' 


BREAK,  BREAK,  THOU  VASE  OF  CLAY!1 


'BREAK,  BREAK,  THOU  STUBBORN 
VASE  OF  CLAY  ! ' 

BREAK,  break,  them  stubborn  vase  of  clay  ! 

For  I  have  that  within  me  which  must  out. 

Oh,  break,  give  way  ! 

My  soul  is  pent  within  thy  coarse  embrace, 

My  soul  is  sick  with  longing  for  the  day. 

Oh,  break,  give  way  !  thy  narrow  space 

Cannot  contain  her;  and  I  doubt, 

Lest  like  the  moth,  who  cannot  burst  her  case, 

She  dies. 

Oh,  break,  give  way  ! 

I  feel  her  feebly  fluttering.     She  dies  ! 

She  is  a  beautiful  and  lovely  thing, 

Most  fair,  most  piteously  frail, 

And  she  is  sick  with  longing  for  the  day. 

There  is  such  pity  in  her  eyes, 

Such  music  in  her  voice,  as  might  avail 

To  charm  our  grief  away  : 

And  yet,  or  ever  she  hath  taken  wing, 

She  dies,  she  dies  ! 

O  prison,  how  canst  thou  imprison  her  ? 
Thou  art  of  Earth  and  she  of  God,  I  ween. 
E  65 


INTERFLOW 

How  is  it  that  thou  art  so  strong, 

And  she  with  all  her  strength  so  passing  weak  ? 

Oh,  who  can  say  ? 

Surely  awhile  in  Heaven  she  hath  been, 

And  she  of  Heavenly  things  would  surely  speak, 

And  charm  our  grief  away. 

But  ah  !  she  lieth  still,  she  doth  not  stir. 

O  prison,  thou  hast  kept  her  overlong. 

She  dies ! 


66 


SIC  TRANSIT  GLORIA  MUNDI 


SIC  TRANSIT  GLORIA  MUNDI 

BELTED  with  indistinguishable  clouds 

Rose  a  great  Mountain  ;  and  about  his  base 

I  saw  the  afterdust  of  marching  crowds ; 
I  saw  the  sunlight  in  his  great  stone  face. 

Then  journeyed  I  across  the  desert  plain, 
And  came,  and  sat  upon  a  rock,  and  saw 

A  pale  moonrise,  a  red  sun  on  the  wane, 
And  heard  a  distant  murmuring  of  war. 

And  grew  a  noise  of  battle  in  the  land ; 

And  gathered  armies,  black  against  the  west, 
Whose  purple  shadows  stretched  upon  the  sand 

Long  shapes  of  slanting  spear  and  monstrous 
crest. 

So,  while  I  watched,  and  while  the  red  sun  shone, 
And  blood  and  sunlight  mingled,  their  great  cry 

Troubled  the  evening  stillness,  and  was  gone, 
And  night  poured  downwards  on  them  from  the 

sky. 

Then  journeyed  I  across  the  desert  plain 

From  the  great  Mountain  ;  and  about  his  base 

I  felt  a  silence  in  the  land  again ; 

I  saw  the  moonlight  on  his  great  stone  face. 
67 


INTERFLOW 


USQUE  QUO,  DOMINE? 

IN  the  grey  morning  light, 

Before  the  yellow  sun 
Had  set  the  waiting  pines  alight, 

My  work  was  begun. 

In  the  white  midday  glare, 

When  the  brazen  heat 
Fiercely  smote  and  would  not  spare, 

Hard  was  the  way  for  my  feet. 

When  the  golden  afternoon 

Bathed  in  warm  radiance 
The  man  and  his  work,  I  thought,  *  Soon 

Cometh  deliverance.1 

As  the  sun  sinking  into  the  west 

Illumined  his  couch 
With  splendours,  I  groaned  for  my  rest, 

' 1  have  worked  overmuch." 

Nevertheless,  till  the  stars 

Blazoned  God  in  the  sky, 
The  grand  'scutcheon  no  man's  hand  mars, 

I  put  not  my  labour  by. 
68 


USQUE  QUO,  DOMINE  ? 

All  was  dark  and  dimly  clear, 
And  the  air  was  blowing  sweet. 

When  the  summons  came  to  my  ear 
And  my  work  was  complete. 


INTERFLOW 


IN  A  BAR  OF  MUSIC 

A  FLASH  of  gold 

Beneath  the  dark  weight  of  leaves, 

Where  the  sun  weaves 
A  pattern  as  new  as  old ; 
A  bird's  trill, 

Heard  in  the  garden  at  noon 

And  stilled  as  soon 
By  the  silence  it  sought  to  fill. 

A  smile,  a  look 

Making  one  the  loved  and  the  lover, 

Could  he  recover 
Only  the  shape  that  it  took ; 
A  smile,  a  caress 

Of  her  hand,  a  kiss  found  on  her  mouth, 

Like  dew  to  the  drouth 
Of  lips  in  the  wilderness. 

A  brief  light, 

Fancied  or  seen  on  the  sea, 

Breaking  free 

From  the  restraint  of  night ; 
70 


IN  A  BAR  OF  MUSIC 

A  truant  mood, 

A  flight  of  the  nun  from  her  cell, 

From  the  convent  bell, 
From  the  stool,  and  the  gloomy  rood. 

Something  sad, 

Withal  not  asking  tears, 

Growing  through  the  years, 
Waking  when  the  heart  is  glad  ; 
Something  grand, 

Which  confounds  and  makes  foolish  the  wise, 

Whoever  denies 
He  cannot  understand. 

Seeing  I  capture 

Glories  which  blinded  thought ; 

My  ears  have  caught 
Echoes  of  senseless  rapture. 
Listen !     I  praise 

God  with  the  God  in  me. 

How  may  this  be  ? 
Mind  answers  not,  but  obeys. 


71 


INTERFLOW 


QUIA  IMPOSSIBLE 

ALWAYS  my  life  seems  strange  to  me, 

This  '  I '  at  myself  wondering, 
This  unaccountable  '  to  be ', 
This  old  incarnate  mystery, — 
So  wonderful  a 


Yet  not  more  strange  to  me  than  death ; 

Death  tells  this  so  fantastic  tale, 
That  with  the  passing  of  my  breath 
The  flower  of  my  life  withereth, 

And  all  my  senses  fail. 

But  strangest  is  that  dream,  which  says 

That  death  is  no  true  death  at  all, 
A  prelude  unto  glorious  days, 
When  life  shall  flow  a  million  ways, 
Each  way  be  magical. 


THE  THREE  DREAMS 


THE  THREE  DREAMS 

*  For  God  speaketh  once,  yea  twice,  yet  man  perceiveth  it 
not.  In  a  dream,  in  a  vision  of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  upon  men  in  slumberings  upon  the  bed.' 

Job  xxxiv.  14. 

I  DREAMED  one  night 

Of  long  departed  days. 
I  dreamed  of  lost  delight, 

Lost  gods,  lost  praise. 
And  when  I  did  awake 
Earth  was  more  beautiful  for  my  dream's  sake. 

All  day  the  sun 

Embroidered  the  green  earth 
With  gold,  and  having  run 

His  course  with  mirth 
He  turned  his  face  away, 
And  night  came  graciously  to  crown  the  day. 

Then  to  my  bed 

Most  joyously  I  went, 
And  kneeling  down  I  said, 

'  God,  Who  hast  sent 
Sweet  visions  unto  me, 

Grant  that  this  night  they  may  still  sweeter  be.1 
73 


INTERFLOW 

There  came  a  change 

Into  my  dreams  that  night. 
Dreadful  they  were,  and  strange ; 

And  a  bitter  blight 
Fell  on  my  heart's  glad  field 
And  withered  in  one  night  its  sun-blessed  yield. 

All  day  I  kept 

Their  legacy  of  pain. 
All  day  the  grey  skies  wept 

Mists  of  grey  rain. 
Night  fell,  and  dumb  grief  still 
Shrouded  my  heart  as  grey  clouds  shroud  a  hill. 

But  pitying 

God  sent  me  a  third  dream, 
Whereby  Death  lost  its  sting, 

Earth  her  false  gleam. 
And  the  old  truth  stood  plain : 
The  heart  which  hath  not  ached,  it  beats  in  vain. 


LAMENTABILE 


LAMENTABILE 

BY  the  long  road  the  tall  grass  waves  and  sighs ; 
Over  the  plain  one  wheeling  seagull  cries. 
How  can  love  grow  or  any  passion  rise 
On  this  bare  earth  and  under  these  grey  skies  ? 

When  the  dawn  broke,  no  fires  flamed  in  the  East, 
No  trumpets  blared,  no  great  rich-coloured  feast 
Of  cloud  and  sunlight  spread  ;  but  darkness  ceased 
And  slowly  the  wan  light  of  day  increased. 

Hour  of  sunset !  Hour  of  mockery  ! 
Instead  of  splendours  in  the  sky  and  sea, 
Nothing  but  this  dim  drear  monotony 
Deepening  beneath,  around,  and  over  me. 

Once  I  believed  that  some  day  I  should  come 
To  a  new  country,  and  there  make  my  home 
Among  great  hills,  which  some  have  seen,  but  some 
Have  fallen  by  the  wayside  stark  and  dumb. 

Alas,  alas !  hope's  last  flower  droops  and  dies. 
Life  drones  on  feebly  through  dead  memories. 
Yet  clings  my  mind  to  this  one  weak  surmise 
— Somewhere  God  waits  me  with  His  great  surprise. 

75 


INTERFLOW 


REMONSTRANCE 

AH,  have  done  with  waiting ! 

Ah,  sleep  not  longer  ! 
See  !  through  thy  barred  grating 

The  light  groweth  stronger. 
Lo,  of  thy  tale  of  years 

A  third  already 
Fallen  beneath  the  shears 

Fate  holdeth  so  steady. 

Who  lieth  still  asleep 

When  the  sun's  new  beaming  ? 
When  he  clambereth  out  of  the  deep 

Is  it  time  for  dreaming  ? 
Are  there  no  tasks  that  call 

Out  for  thy  labour  ? 
Carest  thou  not  at  all 

For  the  pains  of  thy  neighbour  ? 

God  help  thee,  slumberer, 

At  thy  near  reckoning  ! 
Surely  thou  wert  happier 

To  have  obeyed  His  beckoning. 
Bethink  thee,  slumberer ; 

On  him  who  dreameth 
The  end  cometh  speedier 

Than  e^er  he  deemeth. 
76 


REMONSTRANCE 

How  will  it  be,  if  Death 

Find  thee  still  unheeding  ? 
What  answer  delivereth 

Such  an  one  to  thy  pleading  ? 
Simply  to  thy  '  Sleep  was  sweet ' 

Silent  of  praise  or  blame, 
He  draweth  back  the  sheet, 

Strippeth  bare  the  shame. 


INTERFLOW 


THERE  IS  A  ROAD  RUNS  THROUGH 
THE  LANDS  OF  SLEEP 

THERE  is  a  road  runs  through  the  lands  of  sleep, 
Endless  and  full  of  mystery  ;  'tis  white 
With  dust  of  ages,  and  thereon  each  night 
Alone  I  travel.     Either  side  rise  steep 
And  towering  cliffs,  where  hands  of  giants  heap 
Boulder  on  boulder.     Feeble  is  the  light 
Of  stars  above  my  head.     Grim  shapes  affright, 
And  nameless  terrors  lurking  in  the  deep 
Black  caverns  by  the  way.     Each  night  I  see 

Footprints  behind  me,  the  long  tracks  of  years, 
The  untrod  dust  before  :  and  oft  would  flee 
Yielding  my  path  to  those  invading  fears, 
But  that  I  cannot  turn,  nor  do  I  know 
More  whence  I  came  than  whither  I  must  go. 


78 


WISDOM  DRAWN  FROM  LADEN  YEARS 


WISE  WITH  THE  WISDOM  DRAWN 
FROM  LADEN  YEARS 

WISE  with  the  wisdom  drawn  from  laden  years 
Are  you,  my  Mother ;  foolish  still  am  I, 
Like  the  poor  fledgling  that  in  act  to  fly 

Falls  to  the  ground  and  steals  some  baby^s  tears. 

And  still  my  childish  soul  is  ruled  by  fears, 
Not  yet  dispersed  by  cool  self-mastery ; 
Still  do  vague  longings  flicker  dumbly  by, 

Still  broods  distrust  and  slinks  from  fancied  sneers. 

Wise  though  you  are,  you  have  not  guessed  at  this  ! 

You  think  I  stand  alone,  self-confident, 
Doubtful  in  nothing,  a  rock  in  shifting  seas. 
You  do  not  guess  that  with  each  casual  breeze 

My  spirit  flutters  to  the  firmament, 
Swoons  on  the  bitter  brink  of  the  abyss. 


79 


INTERFLOW 


WHAT  GIFT  HAST  THOU,  O  WORLD 
WHERE  NO  STARS  GLOW 

WHAT  gift  hast  thou,  O  world  where  no  stars  glow, 
For  me,  who  still  put  forth  blind  hands  in  vain, 
For  me,  whose  love  goes  and  comes  not  again, 

For  me,  who  have  fulfilled  no  tortured  vow, 

Who  being  bound  to  this  eternal  Now, 

Grope  back  and  forward,  striving  to  regain 
Pure  Past  or  Future  purified  of  pain, 

And  find  no  light  or  sign  to  show  me  how  ? 

*  I  have  three  gifts  for  thee — death,  pain,  and  fear. 

In  fear  and  pain  thou  shalt  walk  all  thy  days, 
And  at  the  end  thereof  bow  down  to  death. 
These  be  as  tokens.     Who  delivereth 

All  three  at  Heaven's  door,  to  him  ablaze 
With  love  and  life  and  joy  God  shall  appear.1 


80 


'QITAS-TU  FAIT?1 


'QITAS-TU  FAIT?1 

ALAS  !  with  my  own  hands  I  have  undone 

Childhood's  long  treasured,  slowly  woven  dream. 

Myself  I  have  defiled  the  holy  stream 
And  poisoned  all  its  fountains,  one  by  one. 
Alas,  alas  !     What  penance  can  atone, 

What   penance    can    bring   back    th1   departed 
gleam  ? 

The  fire  is  out ;  even  though  the  ashes  seem 
Aglow,  it  is  but  seeming.     Love  is  gone. 

And  yet — still  beauty  lives  in  sound  and  sight. 

Still  do  great  suns  burn  red  in  opal  skies, 
And  thrust  through  forests  shafts  of  splendid  light. 

Nay,  even  in  man-made  prisons  Beauty  lies, 
Adored  in  captivity.     Vain  plight ! 

She  gives  her  body,  but  her  soul  denies. 


81 


INTERFLOW 


PAGAN  PRAYER 

Now,  of  all  those  who  walked  upon  Greek  soil, 
Hear  me,  some  god  or  goddess,  and  be  kind ! 
Teach  my  tired  limbs  and  spirit  how  to  find 

Contentment  even  in  the  midst  of  toil. 

As  naked  youngsters,  glistening  with  warm  oil, 
Wrestled  beneath  the  sun,  so  shall  my  mind, 
Stripped   of  dark  humours  and  with  Truth  en- 
twined, 

Stand  up  to  struggle.     Else  white  arms  will  coil 

About  me  and  about  me  and  allure ; 

And  I  shall  soon  forget,  that  once  I  strode 

Forward  with  the  best,  and  deem  hired  kisses  sweet. 

O  spirit  that  can  such  sicknesses  endure  ! 
"Tis  ill  for  thee  to  halt  beside  the  road, 

'Tis  ill  for  thee  to  sleep  in  the  noonday  heat. 


MISGIVING 


MISGIVING 

WHAT  profit  I,  though  my  lips  form 
Words  that  no  child  can  understand  ? 

What  profit,  though  deft  phrases  swarm 
Down  the  quick  pen  held  in  my  hand  ? 

What  honour  from  the  few  deserves 

This  cold  brain  and  its  staff  of  nerves  ? 

What  gain  indeed  !  if  that  pure  sense 
Has  perished  from  the  growing  soul, 

Wherewith  it  felt  God's  immanence 

Throughout  the  huge  unmastered  whole, 

If,  grown  proficient  in  the  act, 

It  lacks  what  then  it  had  not  lacked. 


INTERFLOW 


A  PENNY  WHISTLE 

I  HEARD  in  the  village  to-day 
A  penny  whistle  piping, 
Piping  not  sweet  but  clear. 
And  another  tune  I  seemed  to  hear, 
A  tune  boy-friends  were  piping, 
Long  ago,  far  away. 

Little  things,  O  little  things ! 
Nought  of  value  owning, 
Simple,  naked,  plain. 
Time,  who  else  comes  not  again, 
One  of  you,  nought  owning, 
Back  obedient  brings. 


AMANS  AMARE 


AMANS  AMARE 

THERE  was  a  time,  when  I  was  glad 
Of  sun  and  sky,  and  bursting  meadow. 

And  these  are  still ;  yet  I  am  sad, 

For  'tis  the  bright  day  throws  the  shadow. 

There  was  a  time,  when  I  received 

The  wind's  warm  kisses,  well  contented, 

And  not  the  briefest  while  believed 
That  I  and  Love  might  be  prevented. 

Surely  there  is  a  secret  spring, 

A  spring  of  evil  in  my  being, 
Which  taints  each  once-blest  earthly  thing, 

And  taints  the  once-blest  pow'r  of  seeing. 

Or  wherefore  can  I  no  more  love, 

I  wretched,  who  for  Love  am  longing  ? 

I  set  him  all  gods  else  above  ; 

Him  have  I  wronged  not,  all  else  wronging. 

Oh,  bitter  tale  I  have  to  tell ! 

I  seek  for  Love  and  have  not  found  him. 
And  yet  I  know  his  face  full  well 

And  all  the  beauties  that  surround  him. 
85 


INTERFLOW 

I  am  most  like  in  state  to  those 

Whom  God  drave  from  the  fabled  garden. 
For  me  the  thorn  upon  the  rose 

Pricks  and  the  tender  pathways  harden, 

Who  carry  always  in  my  heart 

Some  sweet  of  memory  madly  stinging, 

The  echo  of  a  once-learned  part 
For  ever  in  my  ears  ringing. 

O  Love  !  I  know  thou  art  a  boy, 

And  winged,  and  bearest  bow  and  quiver. 
But  blind  thou  art  not !     Grief  and  joy 

Are  thine  to  give,  the  only  giver. 

Thou  art  not  blind  !     Else  would  it  chance, 
That  joy  and  grief  fell  out  together, 

And  lovers'  eyes  would  glow  and  glance 
With  the  swift  change  of  April  weather. 

Nay,  nay  !  thou  hast  thy  chosen  slaves, 
Thy  favourite,  whom  thou  dost  dower 

With  the  fair  sight  of  thee,  who  laves 
His  body  in  thee,  like  a  flower — 

A  daffodil,  where  daffodils 

Crowd  by  the  little  steep-banked  stream, 
And  the  spring  sun  serenely  fills 

Each  cup  of  quick  gold  to  the  brim, 

In  some  enchanted  month,  when  days 
Drop  slow  and  sweet  as  falling  honey, 

And  not  a  frown  in  heav'n  betrays 
That  life  is  ever  else  than  sunny. 
86 


AMANS  AMARE 

Fair  as  a  flower  is  he  of  face, 

Light  as  a  leaf  by  loose  airs  driven. 

His  being  is  all  lit  with  grace, 
And  all  his  grace  of  thee  is  given. 

Such  is  thy  favourite.     He  knows 
Thee  lying  down,  and  thee  up-rising, 

And  where  thou  goest  with  thee  goes, 
Nor  seeks,  as  I  seek,  agonising 

In  lonely  woods  and  lonely  plains, 

And  wind-swept  tracks  on  lonely  mountains, 
And  gardens,  where  are  tangled  lanes 

And  broken  Herms  and  weed-choked  fountains, 

And  green-topped  pools,  whose  marble  lips 
Are  cracked  with  age  ;  and  here  a  column 

Stands  ruinous,  there  a  lizard  slips 
Beneath  the  fallen  stones,  and  solemn 

With  the  great  burden  of  the  past 
He  bears  upon  his  weary  shoulders 

Time  rests,  unearthly  still,  at  last, 

Where  all  of  man's  contriving  moulders. 

Not  such  the  ways  which  thou  dost  haunt, 

Who  not  alone  in  lonely  places 
Wandering  upliftest  thy  romaunt, 

But  girt  with  worshippers  and  graces, 

With  whose  full  voices  thy  sweet  voice 
Mingles,  thyself  not  least  delighting 

And  those,  who  in  thy  train  rejoice, 
The  slave-guests  of  thy  own  inviting. 
87 


INTERFLOW 

— Peace,  peace,  thou  too  unquiet  heart  ! 

If  haply  through  the  trees  thou  hearest 
Faint  and  far-off  the  tones  which  part 

Each  from  the  friend  he  has  thought  dearest 

If  haply,  in  some  sudden  glade, 

Thou  seest,  one  immortal  moment, 

The  glory  which  can  never  fade, 

The  beauty  which  is  ceaseless  torment ; 

Shut,  shut  thy  eyes,  and  stop  thy  ears, 

And  run  as  swiftly  as  a  prayer. 
What  else  will  Love  bring  thee  but  tears, 

Tears  and  burnings  and  despair  ? 

Halting  in  an  accustomed  place, 
Say  this  :  '  I  have  escaped  disaster. 

My  fathers  were  a  stubborn  race  ; 
Like  them  I  will  be  my  own  master. 

6 1  was  not  born  to  be  a  slave, 

To  sell  my  manhood  for  caresses, 
Though  sweet  as  any  Eros  gave 

To  Psyche  after  her  distresses. 

'  Why  should  I  be  a  slave  to  Love, 

When  manlier  joys  and  sterner  beauties 

Are  his,  who  leaves  this  charmed  grove 
And  treads  the  world  of  common  duties  ? ' 

Ah  !  if  thou  canst,  say  this,  and  then 

Bid  Love  good-bye,  good-bye  to  pleasure, 

And  pass  into  the  world  of  men, 

And  shape  thy  life  to  its  hard  measure. 
88 


AMANS  AMARE 

There,  all  thy  strength  and  wisdom  tasked, 
There,  at  thy  work  among  thy  fellows, 

It  may  be  Love  will  come  unasked, 
As  poppies,  when  the  harvest  yellows. 


89 


INTERFLOW 


'WHEN  I  WAS  A  BOY1 

WHEN  I  was  a  boy,  I  went  fishing  all  the  day 

Where  a  brown  stream  trickled  through  the  peat. 
Few  and  very  small  were  the  trout  that  came  my 
way, 

But  that  mattered  not  to  me, 
For  I  caught  them  joyfully, 
Singing,  Little  fishes  are  the  best  to  eat ! 

When  I  was  a  boy,  I  made  a-many  rhymes, 

And  I  wrote  them  down  every  one, 
And  I  sung  them  over  a-many  many  times, 
And  I  sung  my  joy  fullest, 
For  home-made  songs  are  best, 
Singing,  O  the  life  before  me,  scarce  begun ! 

Then,  then  it  was,  I  dreamed  through  many  an  hour, 

Through  the  long,  long  hours  of  the  day. 
But  the  boy  is  as  the  leaf,  and  the  man  is  as  the 
flower, 

And  the  dreams  of  little  boys, 
They  may  make  a  mighty  noise 
In  a  world  where  the  grown  men  play. 


90 


THE  GARDEN  AND  THE  LAND 


THE  GARDEN  AND  THE  LAND 

I  SAW  a  Garden.     It  was  both  wide  and  fair. 
It  was  so  fair,  that  sick  men  might  be  healed 
With  looking  on  it  all  one  tranquil  day. 
It  was  so  wide,  that  one  might  wander  there 
From  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  without  stay. 
But  it  was  closed  to  me ;  its  doors  were  sealed. 

I  saw  a  Land.     It  was  the  home  of  Beauty. 

Therein  did  every  Art  a  pinnacle  touch, 

And  on  each  pinnacle  set  a  poised  Endeavour ; 

Therein  was  Life  an  Art,  no  more  a  Duty ; 

And  that  bright  spirit  in  man  no  more  did  crouch 

Shame-faced,  but  leaped  and  sparkled  on  for  ever. 

Me  from  that  Land,  but  looking  back  and  longing, 

Led  the  stern  angel,  Destiny.     It  faded  ; 

It  grew  as  dim  as  any  long-told  story. 

Garden  and  Land  are  memories  now,  belonging 

To  old  times  but  still  tinct  with  the  old  glory. 

Memories  are  sweet,  though  heart  and  soul  be  jaded. 


91 


INTERFLOW 


LINES  WRITTEN  TO  MUSIC 

(MENDELSSOHN'S  'LIEDEII  OHNE  WORTE,'  No.  22) 

LOVE,  thou  that  bruisest,  nor  healest, 
Thou  that  ashamedly  into  me  stealest, 
Thou  that  turnest  my  heart  into  flame, 
Go  back,  go  back,  O  Love,  by  the  way  that  thou 
earnest ! 

Nay,  go !  thou  art  cruel  and  wilt  not  spare. 
Love,  thy  way  is  hard  for  me  to  share. 
Nay,  go !  thou  that  makest  my  life  a  pain. 
Turn  again 
And  hearken  to  my  prayer  ! 

Love,  that  both  healest  and  bruisest, 

Thou  that  askest  not  ever  but  choosest, 

Thou  that  turnest  men's  hearts  into  flame, 

Hast  ever,  O  Love,  gone  back  by  the  way  that  thou 

earnest  ? 
Ah,  closed  now  is  the  way  that  thou  earnest ! 


92 


MODERNITY ' 


'MODERNITY' 

As  a  train  that  thunders  by, 

Where  one  still  watcher  leans  upon  a  gate, 

At  that  quiet  hour  when  late 

The  stars  long-hidden  gather  in  the  sky ; 

Past  him  the  monster  flees, 

The  long  smoke  backward  streams,  lit  windows  race, 

A  moment's  tumult  fills  the  little  space 

And  passes  like  a  breeze 

Hushed  in  the  moment  when  it  stirred  the  trees. 

So  passes  and  is  gone 

The  life  of  man,  and  hushed  its  myriad  noise. 

How  loudly  he  enjoys 

His  furious  day ; — how  soon  his  day  is  done ! 

His  only  law  is  speed. 

Let  the  whole  world  gyrating  like  a  top 

Spin  fast,  spin  faster  to  the  inconceivable  stop ! 

This  is  the  latest  creed. 

Art  judged  thereby  is  vanity  indeed. 

Yet  haply  there  are  those  who  without  frown 
Or  smile,  look  down  on  us,  look  calmly  down ! 


INTERFLOW 


STARS  IN  MUD 

k  WHAT  is  this  that  burns  and  blessses, 

Leaping  upwards  like  a  fire, 
In  whose  flame  my  heart  confesses 
Nameless,  limitless  desire  ? ' 

'  Ah  !  you  ask  what  priests  and  singers, 

Poets  and  philosophers, 
Riddle-makers,  riddle-bringers, 
Pallid  riddle-answerers 

'  Ask  and  have  asked  through  the  ages 

And  will  ask  for  ages  yet, 
Till  to  dust  their  dusty  pages 
Crumble  all,  and  men  forget.' 

4  All  her  bands  from  off  her  throwing, 

Bursting  all  her  prison  bars, 
See !  my  soul  in  stature  growing 
Reaches  up  beyond  the  stars." 

4  Even  so  have  others  spoken  ; 

Even  beggars  dream  of  nights. 
Learn  to  read  this  ancient  token  : 

In  beds  of  straw  lurk  false  delights  !' 
94 


STARS  IN  MUD 

4  Cynic  !  stay  you  here  and  grovel, 

Knees  in  mud  and  back  to  heaven. 
Seek  your  friends  within  your  hovel. 
7  seek  mine — the  shining  Seven  ! 

4  To  the  unsunned  soundless  spaces 

Ever  outwards,  ever  higher. 
Yoked  in  Love's  ethereal  traces, 
Beauty- driven,  I  aspire.1 

4  Back  so  soon,  my  little  traveller  ? 
Journeys  now  are  quickly  done. 
What  news  bring  you,  the  unraveller 
Of  riddles,  from  beyond  the  Sun  ? ' 

4  Mock  me,  you  who  gave  me  warning, 

With  your  old  "  I  told  you  so.11 

Ah,  tli at  life  so  bright  at  dawning 

Soon  should  lose  its  early  glow  ! 

4  Ah,  that  I  who  loathed  the  mire, 

Loved  the  sky,  yearned  to  the  star, 
Ever  outwards,  ever  higher 

Straining,  where  God's  splendours  are}- 

4  Ah,  that  I,  from  what  tall  eyrie 

Into  what  deep  despond  hurled, 
Now  am  one  amongst  the  miry 
Wingless  star- despising  world  !' 

4  Little  brother,  look  you  yonder. 

See  !  the  year's  first  flowers  in  bud. 
Does  your  heaven  own  a  wonder 
Such  as  these  are — stars  in  mud  ! ' 
95 


INTERFLOW 


BUILDING  AND  SINGING 

MAN  toils  and  raises  pillars  to  the  sky ; 
His  work  defies  the  rude  winds  rushing  by, 
And  rain  and  storm  scarce  mar  its  symmetry. 

But  still  the  careless-seeming  feet  of  Time 

Wear  down  the  steps,  where  priests  and  kings  did 

climb ; 
And  many  a  fane  stands  on  naught  else  than  rhyme. 

Hither  and  thither  blown  throughout  all  lands 
Goeth  the  word,  while  man  still  understands ; 
Though  fallen  is  the  proud  work  of  his  hands. 

So  mighty  is  the  spirit  in  us ;  we  speak, 
And  lo,  the  sound  lives  ever  without  a  break ! 
But  build  we  ne'er  so  bravely,  we  are  weak. 

Therefore  lift  up  thy  voice,  O  man,  and  sing, 
And  of  all  artists  let  him  be  crowned  king, 
Whose  songs  go  down  the  ages  echoing. 


96 


A  FABLE 


A  FABLE 

THE  Devil  blew  three  bubbles  with  his  breath. 
The  first  was  colourless;  its  name  was  Death. 
The  Devil  watched  it  upwards  with  a  grin, 
And  blew  the  second,  saying,  '  Thou  art  Sin. 
In  thee  let  every  colour  melt  and  fuse, 
Now  wane,  now  glow  again  with  changing  hues.1 
And  as  it  chased  the  bubble  Death  above, 
He  blew  the  third  and  loveliest,  which  was  Love. 

Far  off  three  boys  were  playing  with  delight, 
When  the  three  bubbles  sailed  into  their  sight. 
First  of  the  three  came  Love,  which  shone  so  fair 
And  weighed  so  lightly  on  the  tender  air, 
That  they  were  smitten  through  with  eagerness 
To  fondle  it  by  many  a  soft  caress, 
And  with  flushed  cheeks  and  eager,  burning  eyes 
They  ran  to  clasp  and  kiss  their  fragile  prize. 
Alas  !  at  their  first  touch  the  bubble  broke, 
And  vanished  in  a  puff  of  noisome  smoke. 

Then  did  they  weep,  bewailing  bitterly 
The  loss  of  that,  which  was  so  fair  to  see, 
Till  one  leaped  up  and  pointed,  with  a  cry, 
Where  Sin  came  floating  innocently  by  ; 
G  97 


INTERFLOW 

Not  lovely  as  the  first,  but  glistening 

With  many  colours,  like  an  evil  thing. 

And  once  again  with  rapt  untutored  gaze 

They  watched  its  buoyant  flight  in  wide  amaze, 

Followed,  and  grasped  ;  again  the  bubble  burst, 

Its  light  departed,  all  its  hues  dispersed. 

And,  while  they  mourned,  pale  Death  came,  drifting 

low, 

And  brushed  against  them,  like  a  flake  of  snow. 
And  at  its  chill  touch,  each  in  sudden  dread 
Shuddered  a  moment,  and  then  lay  still — dead. 

Last  came  the  Devil,  something  out  of  breath, 
And  with  a  toothpick  pricked  the  bubble  Death. 


98 


AN  EPITAPH 


AN  EPITAPH 

A  TRUCE  !     Let  cry  a  truce  !     These  are  the  dead, 

Our  dead,  whom  we  with  all  due  reverence 
Must  gather  in  one  grave,  in  one  wide  bed 

Of  common  earth — each  one  a  hero,  hence 
No  need  to  set  that  man  apart  from  this. 

Of  all  our  dead  let  the  same  tale  be  told  ! 
They  were  our  brothers,  and  not  one  shall  miss 

Honour  and  love  and  praiseful  words  of  gold. 


99 


INTERFLOW 


THE  EVE  OF  WAR 

(Written  at  Highgate  on  the  day  before  the  declaration  of 
war  by  Germany  against  Russia  and  France.) 

THE  night  falls  over  London.     City  and  sky 

Blend  slowly.     All  the  crowded  plain  grows  dark. 
The  last  few  loiterers  leave  the  glooming  park 

To  swell  that  mighty  tide  which  still  sweeps  by, 

Heedless  save  of  its  own  humanity, 

Down  to  the  Circus,  where  the  staring  arc 
Winks  through  the  night,  and  every  face  shows 
stark 

And  every  cheek  betrays  its  painted  lie. 

But  here  through  bending  trees  blows  a  great  wind  ; 

Through  torn  cloud-gaps  the  angry  stars  look 

down. 

Here  have  I  heard  this  night  the  wings  of  War, 
His  dark  and  frowning  countenance  I  saw. 

What  dreadful  menace  hangs  above  our  town  ? 
Let  all  the  great  cities  pray ;  for  they  have  sinned. 


100 


ON  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  WAR 


ON  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  WAR 

BEHOLD  now  the  responsible  hand  of  Fate ! 
We,  like  a  troupe  of  puppets,  but  go  through 
Our  antics  at  her  bidding.     Yet,  what  we  do, 

We  think  from  our  own  will  must  emanate. 

Mistress  of  our  small  stage  she  deals  distress 
To  whom  she  will,  apportions  betterment, 
And  smiles  to  hear  us  praise  each  man's  intent, 

As  if  we  were  sole  authors  of  our  success. 

Deluded  fools  !  and  I  the  most  deluded, 
Seeing  the  future  yawn  before  my  feet, 

Myself  of  all  my  hopes  and  plans  denuded, 

That  but  thin  air  which  seemed  my  steady  seat, 

Still  hoping,  planning,  still  in  myself  confiding, 

Though   Earth's  at  war  and  my  good  luck  in 
hiding. 


101 


INTERFLOW 


ON  THE  WAR 


c  THE  mastery  of  Europe' — it  is  an  age 

Since  last  that  cry  was  heard,  that  vision  burned 
A  nation's  heart  out.     Neither  have  we  learned, 

Nor  our  grandparents,  what  it  is  to  wage 

War  over  land  and  sea,  to  lift  the  page 

Ever  through  five  score  years  of  peace  unturned, 
Where  each  year  Commerce  wrote  what  sums  she 
had  earned — 

Totalled  at  last !  And  now  what  deeds  of  rage 
To  be  set  down,  and  blind  and  brutish  pride, 
And  who  knows  what  of  blood,  of  tears  beside, 

Nob  of  our  seeking  !     For,  God  be  thanked,  we  still 
With  the  old  cause  of  Freedom  are  allied, 

And  our  old  enemy  we  are  pledged  to  kill — 

Caesar,  who  would  bend  Europe  to  his  will. 


102 


ON  THE  WAR 


ON  THE  WAR 

ii. 

NOT  now  the  collision  of  waters,  not  the  shock 
Of  countering  winds,  impact  of  world  on  world ! 
What   image   could   body   forth   whole   peoples 
hurled 

Together,  what  comparison  unlock 

Minds  to  admit  such  horror  ?     If  God  can  mock, 
Us  now  He  mocks,  by  these  grim  clouds  unfurled, 
Those  homes,  where  late  the  peaceful  smoke  up- 
curled, 

On  whose  shut  doors  the  envious  cannon  knock  ; 

Us  dreamers  of  a  Day  beyond  our  day, 
Us  citizens  of  a  City  still  to  be, 
Not  yet,  but  oh  !  if  to  maturity 
Even  now  growing,  splendid,  in  the  womb 
Of  this  dark  present,  if  War  within  his  tomb 

Be  stopt  for  ever,  if  England  win  !  we  pray. 


103 


INTERFLOW 


'FOR  THOSE  AT  SEA' 

(H.M.S.  'ABOUKIII',  'CRESSY',  'HOGUE', 
SEPTEMBER) 


Now  all  our  English  woodland  sighs  '  October."* 

The  mild  sun  going  down  behind  the  trees 
Doth  bless  a  countryside  as  sweet  and  sober 

As  ever  put  on  brown  and  red  to  please  ; 
The  brooks  run  blood,  but  'tis  such  blood  as  Heav'n, 

Pierced  with  light,  lets  fall  on  field  and  village  ; 
England's  dear  breasts  are  still  unbruised,  unriv'n 

The  autumn  peace  on  pastureland  and  tillage. 
Dear  mother  of  us  all,  hast  thou  not  heard  ? 

Thou  knowest  how  thy  sons,  our  brothers,  died 
Of  late,  and  hast  thou  not  a  sorrowful  word  ? 

O  no  !     Thou  dost  contain  thyself  in  pride. 
Pity  suits  not  for  those,  who  guarding  thee 
Guard  more  than  their  own  lives,  for  those  at  sea. 


104 


ST.  PAUL'S  IN  WAR  TIME 


ST.  PAUL'S  IN  WAR  TIME 

THE  last  low  chord  of  voices  dies  away 

Up  the  echoing  dome.     The  priest  intones  the 

prayer 

Murmurously  interceding.     The  hushed  air 
Darkens  about  the  people  as  they  pray 
For  peace,  and  they  have  peace.     But  still  the  day 
Tarries     outside.       Still     through    the    uneasy 

square 
The  crowd  rolls  and  the  traffic  thunders.     And 

there 
London  gives  Peace  the  old  contemptuous  Nay. 

Here,  at  this  same  hour,  many  times  before 

Standing   without    I   have   heard   the   Heavens 
within — 

A  moment,  then  the  sudden-swinging  door 
Silenced  the  one  sound,  and  the  City's  din 

Rushed  up.     But  never  against  that  tyrannous  roar 
Sounded  the  tones  of  Peace  so  far  and  thin. 


105 


INTERFLOW 


QUID  SIT  FUTURUM 

WHEN  I  look  back  upon  the  stream  of  life, 

Which,  broadening  now  to  a  wide-spaced  river, 
Leaves  the  still  lands  (O  little  pools  a-quiver 

With  pigmy  winds  !     O  gentle  woodlands  rife 

With  song !)  and  hears  the  cataracts  of  strife 
Thundering,  not  far — I  ask  of  Thee,  the  Giver 
Of  endings  as  of  beginnings,  Who  dost  shiver 

All  of  Thy  chiselling  with  the  unspared  knife  : 

Look  Thou  upon  these  waters.     They  have  known 
Thee  all  too  little  in  Thy  wrath  and  power. 

Look  Thou  upon  them  ;  that,  when  they  are  blown 
To  vapour,  when  the  unavoided  hour 

Comes,  they  repent  not  but  leap  volleying  down, 
Careless   of  the  void,  in  one  wide  scattering 
shower. 


106 


TO  BELGIUM 


TO  BELGIUM 

You  have  taken  up  the  burden,  which  on  the  back 
Of  Athens  rested  in  the  far-off  time, 
When  first  of  Greece,  and  in  her  own  sublime 

First  hour  of  greatness,  she  withstood  the  attack 

Of  Persia  ;  when  on  her  alone  the  black 

Barbarian  storm-sky  lowered ;  when  by  the  rime 
Of  the  salt  sea,  at  Marathon,  that  worst  crime 

Was  foiled,  that  dark  cloud  parted  into  rack. 

You  took  up  Athens'  burden ;  and  Athens  lent 
Willing-  her  spirit ;  and  still  like  Athens,  you 
Removed  your  kingdom  through  the  wintry  sea. 
England  this  bitter  while  is  proud  to  be 
Your  Salamis.     For,  great  as  glory  grew 

To  Athens,  yours  will  grow  past  wonderment. 


107 


INTERFLOW 


ON  THE  SINKING  OF  THE  'FALABA' 
28TH  MARCH  1915 

Now,  by  just  Heaven,  this  will  we  not  forget. 

There  have  been  those  who  counselled  us:  'Be 

kind. 
Humble  your  enemy  not,  lest  the  sun  set 

In  anger  on  a  world  smit  mad  and  blind.' 
I  heard  and  listened.     I  answered,  it  was  well 

And  wisely  spoken.  So  might  Hate  be  overthrown. 
So  out  of  those  black  deeds,  which  made  a  hell 

In  India,  vengeance  forborne,  leal  love  is  grown. 

Nay,  it  was  just  then  to  be  merciful. 

But  you — '  Guardians  of  the  Flame  '  '  Leaders  of 

the  Race1 
(Whatever  empty  names  of  honour  wears 

Your  arrogance) — you  world- wreckers,  hot  to  pull 
Honour  and  charity  down  from  their  highest  place, 
May  this  be  paid  for  in  your  long  sweat  and  tears. 


108 


A  CALL  TO  ARMS 


A  CALL  TO  ARMS 

DRAW  your  swords,  you  silent  ones, 

You  spectators ! 
Take  your  places,  you  abstracted  ones, 

You  wise  praters ! 

Put  your  books  by,  you  students, 

You  learners  ! 
Lay  down  your  pens,  you  writers, 

You  light-burners  ! 

Those  quiet  days  you  loved  are  over, 

Can  be  no  longer  ; 
Those  still  thoughtful  nights,  those  too 

Must  be  no  longer. 

Other  tasks  now  !     Other  labours  ! 

Be  there  no  flinching, 
No  turning  aside,  no  deserting, 

No  thirst-quenching  ! 

The  Future  ?     Not  for  us ;  for  others. 

Ours  is  the  present ; 
Ours  too  the  Past — that  is  still 

Splendidly  present. 
109 


INTERFLOW 

Let  the  Future  go  !     Since  the  past  is 

Not  yet  ended, 
Be  it  yours  then  to  re- carve  it 

Even  more  splendid. 

Draw  your  swords,  take  your  places, 

Students,  teachers ! 
Lay  down  your  pens,  put  your  books  by, 

Writers,  researchers ! 


no 


RUPERT  BROOKE 


RUPERT  BROOKE 

APRIL  23,  1915 

STILLED  is  one  voice,  amongst  the  many  voices, 

Silent  one  heart,  of  all  young  hearts  high  beating. 
No  more,  no  more  at  Grantchester  rejoices 

His  river-friend,  but  footsteps  faint  retreating 
Away,  away  into  unsounding  distance 

Aching  regrets.     We  too  regret  him  aching, 
Voice  of  bright  steel  and  gold,  radiant  resistance 

To  Death-in-Life  !    Alas,  him  true  Death  taking, 
Newly  unsheathed,  our  newest  eagerest  blade, 

New-tempered  in  war's  hottest  furnace-flame, 
Breaks — breaks !     How  could  we  spare  him  to  be 

broken, 
Happy  son,  whom  to  be  England's  servant  made 

Happier?     How  Glory  might  have  winged   his 

name 
With  now  unspoken  words,  words  ever  unspoken  ! 


Ill 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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